


Dragon's Breath

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternative Universe after The Battle of Black Water, Baby!Sandor, F/M, Magic, Masturbation, Slow Burn, UST, Where in which Sansa is trying to figure her shit out and ironically enough so is the Hound, age of consent!sansa, deaging, magical shinanagans, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 33,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meant to strip her of her Stark roots. To throw away her beautiful Tully colors and warm winter silks and replace them with red and gold. But just like the North, she would never forget. The wolf was in her blood and that, at the very least, was one thing they could <i>never</i> take from her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own HBO's Game of Thrones or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: This is my first Game of Thrones story, so I am pretty much testing the waters right now. I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the books, but I'm aware of the general arc. So, in respect to that, this story is mostly based on the material we have been given in the TV show rather than the book series.
> 
> Warnings: This story is meant to fit in some point between the Battle of Blackwater in season two and before the Red Wedding in season three. This is an AU after the battle of Blackwater. *Contains: adult language, adult content, sexual content, TV show spoilers for all three seasons, smut, a magic spell, 'serious' crack, and cuteness abound!

She woke with a start, her long curls tight and strangling around her neck as a soft cry broke free from her throat. She untangled herself from her sheets, drawing her knees to her chest as she drew in a shuddering breath. She pressed a hand to her breast, feeling it race underneath the thin shift she wore, mind struggling to remember what had frightened her so.

 _It was just a dream_ she assured herself. _Only a dream._

It was still dark, perhaps only a few hours from dawn, but already she could hear the sounds of the castle waking - the _klank-klank_ of armor from the battlements and the faint, but still discernible murmurings of a group of Septas heading down towards the main hall. The castle servants were already hard at work, stoking fires and readying their masters for another day amidst all the pomp and splendor King's Landing had to offer.

It was soothing in a daft, childish sort of way. She hadn't had a night terror since-

She shook herself from her thoughts, unwilling to dwell on such things as she pushed aside her sheets and crossed to the window. She gazed down at the courtyard below, watching as the shadows gradually lengthened, twisting and warping as dawn streaked across the sky. She was to be brought before the King today. She didn't know why, but she could certainly guess. The entire castle had been abuzz with the news, talking in hushed voices whenever she passed, giggling and whispering as she held her head high and tried to ignore it.

She was to marry the imp. _Tyrion Lannister._

They meant to marry her to a lion and be done with it. She bit her lip, running her hands along the cool stone as she leaned up against the window ledge. In many ways it was good match. Perhaps not in all the ways a young woman might hope for when she is courted by a suitor, but in terms of allegiances and lordly politics, well, one could not ask for a better set of circumstances. She was the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, high born and the heir to a powerful house – and further to the crown's benefit, after her father's death, she was officially a ward of the King.

She was no fool, marrying her to House Lannister would better secure their ties to the North. And with Robb dead - Bran and Rickon feared to be the same - by right of marriage her husband could claim Winterfell as his own. She would return home a lion, not wolf.

_She prayed to the seven that her father would forgive her._

The queen had already ordered new gowns to be made for her, claiming she had outgrown the ones she'd arrived with. And while that certainly wasn't untrue, with her hems now riding well above her ankles and her bodices almost crushingly tight, she knew the truth behind Cersei's supposed 'good-will'.

They meant to strip her of her Stark roots. To throw away her beautiful Tully colors and warm winter silks and replace them with red and gold. But just like the North, she would _never_ forget. The wolf was in her blood and that, at the very least, was one thing they could _never_ take from her.

But logically, that was as far as her defiance could go. She was the eldest daughter of her house, once queen to be and adored by all, she was now, by affiliation to her late father and brother, a lady in disgrace. She was nothing more than a pawn in the hands of both the King and the Small Council, a prized little rook that was to be carefully paired with the House that would best advantage their own interests, their own private little plots and schemes. She had no say in the matter and at this point, the risk of voicing any defiance, any hint of refusal or ill-content on her part was far too great to chance.

_For all intents and purposes, she had been sold, and the Lannisters had been the highest bidder._

She ran her fingers through her hair, considering her position, watching a harried looking baker hurry across the yard, dodging guardsmen and washerwomen alike as he angled towards the main hall, balancing a platter of fresh rye in front of him like a shield. The heavenly smell of freshly baked bread seemed to permeate the air long after he'd disappeared.

Her stomach grumbled in response, mouth watering as her body reminded her that she'd barely touched her supper the night before. _She hadn't had much of an appetite of late._

She combed her fingers idly through a few sleep-mussed tangles as she watched the people come and go. Today she would be expected to play her part, to act surprised, yet still somehow honored by the match when the King announced her fate. Joffrey would be delighted, no doubt; after all, he believed he'd succeeded in holding in her suspense for the past few days. Perhaps he hoped she would be near hysterics, overcome with nerves as to what his Lordship could possibly want with his castoff queen.

But to her credit, she'd heard the whispers long before the royal summons had arrived. It hadn't taken long; she'd simply donned a plain brown cloak and haunted the alcoves by the castle wells until she'd caught up on the latest gossip. And while she'd cried herself to sleep every night since, she refused to let it rule her. She might have to marry Tywin Lannister's youngest son, but she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing it had broken her.

_She was a wolf of the north after all._

_And she'd grown tired of her cage._


	2. Chapter 2

Her breath caught in her throat when the Hound suddenly stalked out of the shadows of the courtyard below, emerging from the exit that led directly to the royal apartments with such a fierce expression that she was half-sure the sun would change its mind about rising and defer to his formidable temper.

He paused beside one of the benches, tossing one of his gauntlets down on the wooden seat as he stretched. He let go of a jaw cracking yawn, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his breastplate with a careless grace.

He was tired, she realized. The concept was so foreign, so unknown to her that she seized on it, acting like a woman possessed, or perhaps a girl infatuated. She was too close to the matter to tell, examining this new facet of the man who had come to haunt her thoughts more often than not of late.

She cocked her head, studying him unabashedly. There was a difference in him, however subtle. It was present in the way he carried himself, in the set of his shoulders and the slight gentling of his ever present glare. It was perhaps the most vulnerable she'd ever seen him – a sight he gifted to remarkably few.

Her gaze lingered. She liked him like this, he seemed softer somehow, more honest and unaware. There was a grace to his movements when he was alone, a natural fluidity and maleness that was almost mesmerizing to her inexperienced eyes.

_Here, in this moment, he acted more like the man he was than the dog everyone believed him to be._

Things between them could best be described as tense. Their acquaintance was not quite amicable, but neither was it completely hostile. She suspected the Blackwater was to blame for the majority of it. He had come to her after the battle had been won, his armor dented and dripping red across the flagstones. She remembered the moment in terrifying detail; she remembered the expression on his face and the sweaty thatch of hair that hung over his eyes, obscuring the worst of his burns as the torchlight reflected off his armor – flickering like living flame as he shifted in place.

She even remembered the way his free hand had clenched and unclenched at his side, a muscle ticking in his cheek as they'd stared at each other through the crack in the door. _Her, queen to be, and him, the King's loyal dog, begging for her favor._

In the end, she wasn't sure _why_ she'd opened the door, bidding him silently into her chambers and sitting him down on the chair near the window. Nor did she know where the courage had come from when she'd swallowed his disgruntled stammerings and helped him unbuckle his mail – her nimble fingers remembering the task she'd performed more times than she could count for her father and brothers as she retrieved a basin and started tending to the worst of his wounds.

He'd reeked of sour wine and blood, of sweat, sea-salt and singed charcoal. His eyes had been distant then, staring at the stone walls like he could see clear through them and out into the burning water beyond. She'd been about to question him, to demand why he'd scampered to her chambers instead of the court physician's - or countless others who could have seen to him far better than she. But before she could voice it, she'd remembered the story of the Mountain and the Hound and something in her had softened.

_It didn't matter why he was here, only that he was – and that for the first time in a long time, she wasn't bothered by it. In fact, she'd welcomed it. She didn't fear him, not anymore._

He'd told her of a plan then, whispering it in her waiting ears as she daubed at a deep furrow in his shoulder, the skin around it already bruised, looking ugly and painful as he'd seized her by the shoulder, forcing her to look at him. His hands had been like claws, pricking her fair skin as he'd pawed at her. He'd offered to take her north, to leave the King's Guard and all the merit he had earned to smuggle her back home to Winterfell.

_He'd offered to take her home._

But she'd only peeped, mewling and chirping like a lost chick, hesitating just a second too long, and suddenly, before she could even so much as gather her wits to answer, he was gone. He'd left half his armor behind in his haste, perhaps regretting he'd even come to her in the first place as he'd slammed the door, leaving her dumbstruck in the low light, a bloody cloth in one hand and his shoulder plate in the other.

She suspected he cursed her for not realizing the depth of his offer, while she, on the other hand, cursed _him_ for his lack of patience.

She'd often wondered what their lives would be like if she'd accepted the Hound's offer. If she'd been able to summon her courage and let him shroud her in black – smuggling her out into the night as the roar of far off flames spurred their flight. She wondered, if they'd made it home to Winterfell, if the man would have chosen to stay. Would he have gone to fight for Robb and her House in the war? Or would he have remained at her side, as her sworn shield?

When she forced herself to truly consider it, she realized she knew remarkably little of his intentions. Was his offer made more out of prudence and greed, or was it good will or some bastardized form of morality that had brought him to her door?

She had done much thinking that night and for many nights after, turning that moment and all the ones that had come before it over and over in her mind. The hound was no true knight, not in heart, not in name, and certainly not in standing. He cared little for such titles. And yet, he was the truest soul she'd met since the King had come to call on her father at Winterfell.

_The realization had been just about as maddening as the man himself._

Things had changed between them after that night, she didn't know if it was for the good or the ill, but change they had. It had started with the small things, with small gestures and concessions offered up on both their parts. A brash, yet kind word as he saw her back to her chambers after an audience with the king, or a quiet nod in his direction when she attended court, wondering all the while if he could feel her eyes on him as he stood guard by the King's side. Wondering what he was thinking, what he was feeling as the hours trickled past and more than once, his gaze found hers.

_It was a dangerous game they were playing, she knew that. But the seven preserve her, for neither could she find it in her to stop._

But the day she'd truly been forced to acknowledge it had been no more than a fortnight ago, when Margaery had taken her to watch Loras and the other knights sparring in the training yard.

Loras had been willowy and lithe, handsome in his finery and already well attended by a clutch of adoring young things who sighed and gasped in admiration whenever he strayed towards the edge of the yard. He bested one opponent after another, taking down men far taller and broader than himself with careful tactics and valiant strength. Margaery had pointed him out at every opportunity, practically glowing with pride as her younger brother brought down Ser Meryn with a backhanded strike to the man's armored thigh - forcing him to yield as the crowd cheered madly. Ser Meryn had _not ___been amused.

_But Sandor? Sandor had been _magnificent_._

The day had been uncommonly hot, and unlike most of the other Sers, for the first time in her memory, he had forgone his armor, wearing only a thin tunic unlaced at the breast and an oiled ox-hide jerkin over-top. His thighs were encased to great effect in a pair of loose leathers, looking comfortable and free as the other knights clanked around in their metal finery, quietly suffocating as he made short work of the whatever opponent dared approach him. 

He seemed even larger without his armor, masculine and broad in all the ways she'd never considered a proper ser _should_ be as he sweated clear through his tunic, the play of muscles highlighted as the thin fabric plastered itself to his back. Even Margaery had commented on his prowess, whispering tid-bits of gossip she'd heard around the castle as she watched as Sandor and Loras suddenly banded together, their unplanned allegiance unspoken as their backs met, protecting each other's flanks as a group of knights joined forces in an attempt to take down the mock-tourney's two clear champions. 

__She swore the woman's words had nearly set her cheeks aflame._ _

Sandor Clegane was an anchor amidst a sea of floating nets, brutal, fearless, and cunning. In fact, most knights yielded rather than face him and those foolish enough to try had needed to be carried off the field more often than not when the younger Clegane had finally been done with them. 

The Hound had just grinned, his smirk lop-sided and fierce as he fought his way free of the group that dared encircle him. But he didn't fight like hound, no, in that moment he'd reminded her of a _wolf_ , a wolf circling his prey, smart in his strategies and ferocious in his attacks. 

A fierce sort of pride had risen up in her as the hours rolled past. It had been a fledgling thing but it had been there nonetheless. For she'd had eyes only for him that day - none of the challengers, not even the fair Loras Tyrell, had even so much as tempted her favor. 

She remembered thinking that her girlish fantasies about noble sers and manly courtesies had never seemed more lacking as she watched the man duck a vicious swipe. One hand had darted out to throttle his opponent, using brute strength and surprise to his advantage as the gangly knight hung limp in his grasp, all but wheezing out his yield before the Hound had finally dropped him. 

Such things, she'd come to learn, were _nothing_ like the stories of legend. 

He had been as fierce as a Dire Wolf that day, more than worthy of the banner of her house as he'd howled his victory. He stood proudly, at least two heads taller than the pups that dared to worry at his ankles, nodding respectfully when Loras joined him, calling for wine and a platter of meat to break their fast before the next round. 

She'd held out hope that he would somehow acknowledge her, but if he'd noticed her presence on the platform above, he kept his eyes firmly on the yard throughout his meal. Instead, she'd simmered in childish disappointment as Margaery had inquired after her needlework, eventually distracting her with talk of the latest styles and patterns in Highgarden as she'd nibbled her way through a square of lemon cake - wondering idly if she dared to make a visit to the royal seamstress to inquire after his measurements. 

She remembered as clear as anything the way her fingers had twitched at her sides, mirroring the movements of a needle as she imagined him in Tully blue. _No_ , not blue, perhaps the stark yellow and black of his house. Something simple, yet not without elegance, perhaps with the figure of a hound, caught in the act in a noble howl, stitched proudly on his breast. 

And while the idea had only lasted for a smattering of moments before reality had grasped it in its jaws and silenced it, it still painted a pretty picture in the back of her mind. 

She had always imagined presenting her intended with some homemade trinket, a shirt or an embroidered jerkin to assure them of her affections. She'd had it planned out in her mind for as long as she could remember, from border to hem. And yet, out of all the men in King's Landing who had endeavored to gain her favor, she suspected that the Hound would have been the only one who would have truly appreciated such a gift. 

Even then it would be more likely that he wouldn't wear it. Appreciate it, yes. But wear it? Unlikely. He had gold aplenty, especially after winning the champion's purse at the Hand's Tourney. Yet, she'd only ever seen him in the same dented armor – that or his white and silver plated King's Guard breastplate. She imagined he had a handful of drab, shapeless tunics stashed away in his rooms, all of them threadbare, sweat stained and in desperate need of patching. But she didn't see him as the type to go to a tailor or some far flung market stall to purchase new garments until he was absolutely forced to. 

__The man had little use for empty things._ _

__Pity._ _

She sighed, shaking her head as one of the guardsmen called out the hour, bringing her slowly back to the present. She shivered in her thin shift, biting down on an indulgent smile as she watched the Hound adjust one of his gauntlets, examining the buckles and belts with a critical eye before doing the same on the other. 

_Perhaps the Hound was right after all; perhaps she _was_ nothing more than a silly bird._


	3. Chapter 3

The mock-tourney had lasted the majority of the day, with even the King making an appearance in late afternoon, yelling out encouragement to his dog as Margaery sat politely at his side. She'd charmed him with her courtesies, that much was clear, but the King's patience with the revelry below ended up being relatively brief. In fact, he seemed decidedly put-off by the lack of fanfare his entrance had received, whereas Sandor and Loras had the crowd on their feet, chanting and cheering as the King had sulked in his chair, eventually bidding his lady good day and disappearing back into the castle in a swirl of red and black silk.

"I did not realize Sir Clegane and your brother were so well acquainted," she remarked, taking a sip from her wine as Margaery retook her seat, smoothing the folds of her dress with a satisfied air as she tried to hide her interest in idle conversation. She had to admit that she was undeniably curious about the entire affair, gaze drawn back to the training yard as Loras laughed at something the Hound said, grinning openly as the older man tore the leg clear off a roast fowl and ripped into it with relish.

"To my knowledge they are not," Margaery replied. "However, my dear brother has talked much of his assistance at the Hand's tourney earlier this year," she offered, shading her eyes as she watched the two men converse, already deep into their cups as a group of squires tended to their lords on the other side of the yard.

_It was rare that the Hound was friendly, let alone civil to anyone, especially a ser._

Her cheeks had colored, burning into high points of red when Sandor suddenly barked, laughing deep in his throat as Loras finally succumbed to the heat and stripped off his breastplate. The Hound seemed to take that as a challenge, however, because a moment later he'd ripped off his tunic and jerkin, baring his chest as a round of appreciative murmuring rose up from the crowd.

"Men form bonds in different ways than women, I suppose. Perhaps it is not within us to ever fully understand them," Margaery continued, her grin suddenly mischievous as she ducked her head, looking like a woman about to share a confidence as the Hound called for more wine below.

"I have heard it said that among the Horse Lords beyond the sea, men are not considered full grown until they've received their first scar in battle. If that is indeed true, I would imagine the Hound is a man a _thousand_ times over," she added, the hint of a playful giggle coloring her tone as a slick of sweat gleamed across Sandor's naked back.

She swallowed, hard, cursing herself as she tried to put the image out of her mind. _It wouldn't do to give the woman ideas after all._

"Come now my dear, what do Northerners say of such things?" Margaery inquired, "you must admit he is quite skilled. He seems a proper sort of man, if not a proper ser." Her gaze was thoughtful as the man stretched, muscles flexing and cording all the way down his back as he bent over the table, sweat trickling down the length of his spine as something deep inside her belly in her practically _purred._

She nodded, trying to buy herself some time, weighing what she felt with what she believed the woman wanted to hear as she allowed herself to take him in properly for the first time. From this vantage point he was lightly furred, covered in a winding pattern of bold brown hairs littered amongst a road map of ill-healed bruises and ancient scars.

_A man he was indeed._

She shuddered, tearing her eyes away as she swore she heard the voice of her sepsa whispering in her ear. _A proper lady does not think of such things._

In the end she was so distracted that she spent the next few minutes choking on a bit of lemon cake, and was thus saved having to answer as Margaery piled her with wine and sweet tea as the afternoon meal came to a close and the Hound and Loras joined the others, readying themselves to continue.

She watched the rest of the tourney unaccountably torn. She felt distracted, yet strangely focused, as she seized on the way the man's broad sword caught the light. It seemed, if only for an instant, to be a singular point of a light in an encompassing dark before the blunt edge slammed down on Ser Blount's helm, sending him well into unconsciousness as his squire raced to his side.

She didn't understand it. She'd seen her brothers' and her father's bannermen without jerkins and shifts more times than she could count. And yet, she'd never felt the way she had when the Hound had shed his tunic - so breathless and aware. The feeling had been rich and pleasurable in a way she scarcely understood herself.

In fact, the odd stirring in her breast and loins sent her flying back to her chambers flushed and aching the moment the tourney had come to a close. She'd blamed the sun and a day spent mostly out of doors when Margaery had asked her if she was well. _She'd been certain that it had shown on her face - that somehow, they would know._

She shivered in delight at the mere memory.

She remembered closing her door with a sigh, barring it securely as she'd leaned up against it and tried her best to regain her composure. Her center ached, throbbing under her skirts as she pressed a hand against her sex, willing herself to calm as her heart raced just underneath her skin.

_The only thing was she couldn't seem to get him out of her mind!_

She was a woman grown now; perhaps it made sense that she viewed things differently. That the sight of a half-naked man might- She shook her head. _No_ , she wouldn't lie to herself. It was not the sight of just _any_ man, it'd been _him_ , and him alone that had made her feel this way.

She wanted the Hound. The seven save her, but she did.

And while she knew it was foolish to hope, she couldn't help but pray that whatever it was he felt towards her, it was at least _something_ of the same.

After all, why else would he risk so much coming to her, not once, but countless times since she'd arrived at King's Landing? It had taken her time to see it, but layered in between the rudeness, the cruel words and rough manner, the younger Clegane had always been there for her when he could, when it had had _truly_ mattered. He'd been there for her at the wall when Joffrey had forced her to look at her father's head, to stare unblinkingly at the only man in the world who had given her his love unconditionally.

But that wasn't where his attentions ended. No, somehow the Hound had known. He'd seen the brutal truth of it in her eyes as she'd stepped forward, advancing on her husband-to-be with the intention of ending it, of plunging them both into the brink as vengeance and mania had coursed through her veins like liquid flame. Only he'd stopped her, using his own kerchief to dab at her bloody lip. It had been a small kindness, and an even greater risk, but he'd done it all the same.

He'd reminded her that there was still goodness in the world, and even the most taciturn and brutal soul could be kind and gentle.

He'd been there in the throne room when the news of Robb's victories had reached the capital. He had been there when Joffrey had threatened her, when he'd had her half stripped and beaten in front of the entire court. It had been _his_ cloak that had been draped over her shoulders, _his_ scent that had risen around her, comforting and grounding as the white wool had rasped against her naked flesh.

He'd been there in Fleabottom when the mobs had overtaken them - when those men had chased her, cornered her, when they'd ripped at her dress and underclothes, fighting each other for the right to defile her first before he'd fallen on them. He'd ripped through them like a winter storm tearing through the pines. He'd saved her then, in more ways than one.

_He'd always saved her._

And he'd been there for her further still, in a dozen different moments, a dozen different expressions and actions. Like during the tourney on Joffrey's name day or solid the presence he'd always provided whenever they were within sight of the other.

He possessed a prudent sort of roughness, a practical cruelty that seemed to arise whenever it was needed. Yet, he was not cruel by nature. He was rough, perhaps even brash, but never cruel without purpose. Not like Joffrey, _never_ like Joffrey.

The Hound was not a good man, but he'd been kind to her, so neither could she deem him a bad one either. He was not like the knights she'd heard of in song and legend. He was simply that, _a man_.

Sepsa Mordane had often told her that men spoke and thought in a language completely their own, entirely separate from the thoughts and words of women. Perhaps like two birds of different breeds piping uncertainly through the trees, what they faced was simply a matter of misunderstanding, of miscommunication and perhaps the uncertain hardship of unsung desires.

After all, there was much that remained unspoken between them. There was a familiarity, a bond, yet it boasted no foundation. She was no fool, she knew as well as he that there was little opportunity for such a seed to take root, little hope that what they had could somehow grow into something more.

And yet…

The northern rose still blossomed in spite of the winter. In the fields surrounding Winterfell there was a hardy plant, a flower, blood red and full that bloomed in spite of the cold. If such a pretty, delicate thing could survive, who could say that what _they_ had could not?

She nearly fell backwards in surprise when the Hound suddenly turned, looking up towards her little nook with fire dancing in the back of his coal-black eyes. It was enough to bring her all but _crashing_ back to the present. Their gaze locked as she raised her hand to her breast, attempting to salvage her modesty as his gaze roved over her thin shift with an undisguised hunger.

_Gods!_

It wasn't until someone hailed him from across the courtyard that the moment ended. Her heart was beating high in her chest as she forced herself to look away, to back away from the ledge and pray that no one had seen them.

But for reasons beyond her, while she should have been worrying about rumors and gossip, all she could really think about was the way he'd looked that day in the training yard, his muscles corded and strong as he'd landed blow after blow. And, perhaps, the warmth in his gaze that she couldn't help but imagine was for her.

She smiled as she unpinned her hair, cuddling back underneath the blankets as she breathed in the familiar scent of her bathing oils, closing her eyes as the unique blend of lemon and lavender rose in the air around her.

She knew the truth of it now. She knew what she felt. And she knew what he'd expressed up until this point was far more than the childish thoughts she'd dreamt of in her girlhood. They were stupid notions, fantasies that had amused her during the bitter cold, huddled around the fire in Winterfell's great hall all through the long dark, imagining far off places and knights with fair hair and chivalrous spirits.

She was no longer the same child that had ridden into the capital, fueled by dreams of knightly splendid and delighted by the thought of finally taking up her womanly duties, to become a woman and serve at the leisure of her Lord husband. She'd grown since then, _matured_. She no longer wanted to be Joffrey's queen, or bear the lion a brood of flaxen haired sons and daughters. No, now she longed for home, for the brisk winds and rolling hills of Winterfell. She longed for the embrace of what family she had left. She longed for a roaring fire, and perhaps, for a hound to warm her bed when winter finally came again.

She wanted to be _his_ just as much as _he_ was _hers_. It seemed so small a thing, and yet short of a miracle, she doubted that such a thing was even within the power of both the old gods and the new to provide.

There was _something_ between them. That much she knew for certain. A seed long since planted that was on the cusp of coming to bloom. And while all her experiences in this hellish place told her otherwise, she couldn't help but covet it.


	4. Chapter 4

The King sent for her at mid-day, and while Shae tried to tempt her with soft boiled eggs and a cut of Northern-style back bacon she'd charmed out of one of the cooks, she only managed to swallow down a bite or two of her breakfast. Instead, she spent the majority of the morning running back and forth from her wash basin, dry heaving as her nerves got the better of her.

She must be brave. She knew what was coming. It was up to her to make the best of it. She was a Lady of the North. She had her mother's strength and her father's heart. Surely, she would prevail. _She would show them what the North was truly made of._

So, when her maids began to put up her hair, assuming she'd want to wear it in the style the court favored, she stopped them. Instead, she instructed them to gather it at the sides and let it hang loose, mirroring the style her lady mother so often favored as they brushed it to shining. She allowed them to buff her nails and rub her skin with sweet smelling oils, listening idly to their chatter as she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked afraid.

By the time Ser Meryn came to collect her, she was trembling, skin prickling with goose pimples as Shae hummed encouraging words in her ringing ears. The older woman was a steady presence at her side as she forced herself not to flinch when the ill-tempered man snapped at her, bidding her to hurry as she swept out of her rooms and down the hall, following her feet to the throne room.

She could feel every eye on her as she crossed the room, every servant, every soldier, lord and lady watched her glide across the flagstones. Her soft slippers made barely a whisper across the cool stone as she raised her chin, aloof to their whispering as she hushed past.

 _Northern strong,_ she reminded herself. _Northern strong._

She approached the dais boldly; her dress, a pale yellow and trimmed with Tully blue, was flared at the waist. She'd chosen her outfit carefully, matching her old skirts with a new frock, the sleeves embroidered in her own pattern, weaving together the colors of her house in a subtle design that complimented the soft yellow silk that came up in thin ruffles around the bodice. Even the lush curve of her hips was accentuated by the gold circlet her father had given her on thirteenth name day. _Her own quiet little rebellion._

She bowed respectfully as Joffrey glared down at her, his expression imperious yet mirthful as he towered over the room from his seat on the Iron throne. It was almost as if he were enjoying some sort of private joke at her expense, which, of course, if the rumors were to be believed, was in fact quite true.

The Hound was at his accustomed place at the King's right side, looking _anywhere_ but at her, his expression as blank and impassive as she'd ever seen it when Ser Meryn took his place at the King's left, leaving her alone at the bottom of the dais. And while she yearned for some sort of acknowledgement, she knew they both had their parts to play. _Just knowing he was here was enough._

Her knees trembled as she struggled to maintain her curtsy. She bit her lip, trying to slow the frantic thrum of her heart as she looked up at the King uncertainly. She remained there, frozen, as the seconds ticked past and still the King made no move to acknowledge her.

Angry tears pricked in the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Frustration and humiliation rose in the back of her throat like bile as the crowd shifted, wary and bored behind her. It was considered an insult of the highest order for a person, even the highest born lord or lady, to rise before the King had given them leave to. His grace knew that. And still he made her suffer; suffer for the sake of his own cruel amusements, making a mockery of her before she'd even had so much as a chance to open her mouth.

_She was so tired of these games, tired of the intrigues, the untruths and shadowy allegiances. She longed to go home, back to Winterfell, and sleep through the long night until it was summer again and she could start anew._

The entire court had been summoned to witness the announcement of her betrothal. She supposed it made sense considering her status and that of her husband-to-be, but that fact was of little comfort as she caught flashes of faces out of the corner of her eye.

The Hand of the King was in attendance, as was Queen Cersei, Lord Baelish, Lord Tyrion, Lord Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle. She'd even caught sight of Margaery, Loras and their grandmother, Lady Olenna, over the shoulders of a gaggle of lords and ladies. Lannister blond was chief among the crowd when she'd entered the throne room. Everyone who was anyone in the eyes of the King had crowded into the vast hall eager to watch her shame.

_The traitor's daughter._

_The lion who had finally made the wolf come to heel._

_Mother help her._

Her hair fell across her face as the silence lengthened, her long curls curtaining down her nape as she kept her eyes firmly on the flagstones. The entire court seemed to be holding its breath, _waiting_. Pain blossomed down her calves as the points of her slippers started cutting into her toes, discomfort creeping up her spine as Lord Tywin glared up at his grandson in clear disapproval.

Though, in all honesty, she wasn't sure if that was in her defense or if the man was simply incensed about his grace going out of his way to waste his time. Lord Tywin was a formidable man and not to be trifled with.

Somewhere behind her, a man coughed. A count of six and ten more before the sound of armor grating together echoed through the hush. Somewhere off to her left a Knight shifted, the sound high and grating as somewhere amidst the sea of Lannister blond, a woman stifled a nervous giggle.

She wavered; catching herself before she lost her balance. Joffrey's cruel smile only grew all the broader.

 _He is enjoying this_ , she realized. Like that moment on the wall when he'd forced her to look at her father's head and the countless others since - he _enjoyed_ taunting her. He recognized her distress, her discomfort, and took pleasure in it.

Her throat worked around a painful swallow. _How could one person be so hateful? So without kindness or mercy?_

But amidst it all, she could feel the Hound's eyes on her and that gave her courage.


	5. Chapter 5

"Arise my Lady," Joffrey commanded, airy and almost reproachful, as if she were some silly child who'd missed some courtly cue the King had already offered.

"Your Grace," she replied respectfully, rising with as much dignity as she could muster, her aching toes throbbing. But her stature only grew prouder by the second as the Hound's dark eyes followed her, his gaze almost smoldering as he watched her behind the fan of his dark brown hair.

His hair was lank and in desperate need of a wash, in fact, her fingers actually _itched_ to perform the task herself. She wondered offhandedly, if his fine hair would be as coarse as it looked; if the slight curl that spiraled around the edges could be encouraged or if it was simply a matter of ill-kept hair and an honest sweat.

He looked as he ever did, harsh and fierce. Like a hound that had just finished scampering through the moors, grooming himself hurriedly a few seconds before his master returned home. And yet, amidst the sea of pomp and splendor that surrounded them, where lords and ladies were decked out in the latest fashions and unsteady under the weight of their finery, no one said a word. No one even so much as looked him in the eye. No one save for her.

The message was clear. The Hound quailed at no one. And neither would she.

"Do you know why you've been summoned here today, Lady Sansa?" Joffrey asked, voice mocking, masking his tone with an indulgent smile.

"No, your Grace," she returned, feeling it best not to let on what she knew as she allowed her hands to fall at her sides, making an effort not to wring in them in distress as the King rose to his feet. The movement was lavish in its confidence, pompous in a way that actually curled the Hound's lip as Joffrey's black cloak swirled around his feet, pinned with a silver circlet just off the King's left shoulder as he faced the court.

She took the expression for what it was; _a token_ , a boon offered up for her benefit. She tucked it away to treasure later.

"Then I have been left with a great honor, indeed," the King simpered, gesturing around at the room at large with an elegant wave. His long sleeves billowed impressively, fluttering at his wrists in a ripple of royal blue silk.

One of Lord Varys' brows arched incredulously, in danger of getting lost in the frown lines above his shorn head before the expression was quickly masked. Lord Baelish however looked remarkably sour, like a child who had just been told that despite having carefully eaten every one of his greens, there would be no dessert after supper.

Lord Tyrion, for his part, just looked faintly ill. Like he'd spent the last few days lost in his wine cups, only to emerge in the morn and be forced to realize that their soon-to-be betrothal had _not_ been some wine-addled night terror, but, in fact, their new reality.

She couldn't help but sympathize.

Indeed, despite the fact that someday he would expect her to bear his sons, a litter of lion cubs as fair of hair as himself, she felt a stir of kinship kindle in her breast as he caught her gaze and inclined his head respectfully. It was apparent that she didn't want to marry him anymore than he did her, and as strange as it was to admit, that was actually heartening.

"This is an auspicious day, my Lady," Joffrey crowed. "A day where a woman achieves the greatest honor one can expect of her sex, save for bearing her husband a brood of sons, of course," he added, his smile making a mockery of the expression as his mother stilled a few steps below him. Her lips thinned into a grim line as her son ploughed forward, clearly in his stride now as half the court clapped in eager agreement.

"…By being the willing partner in an advantageous marriage to a powerful house!" the young King decreed. His expression was imperious as he raised his voice to be heard above the din, the entire court erupting into thunderous applause.

She felt like she was about to be sick.

She forced herself to meet his gaze as he looked down at her. To look into those perfect blue eyes and wonder how she could have ever judged someone so poorly.

_Stupid girl._

It seemed so clear now. She'd mistaken superiority and cruelty for confidence and daring, his fake simper for kindness and petty sulks for passivity and intelligence. He was nothing more than a child, a cowardly boy wearing a man's robes and a better man's crown.

 _He was unworthy_ , she realized. Unfit to rule. Her father had known that, perhaps her brothers as well. People had tried to tell her, had tried to caution her as she tripped headlong into her affections. _Even the Hound had tried to warn her, in his own way._ But she had wanted so much for the stories and songs of old to be true, for her intended to be bold, but righteous, gentle, yet strong.

Coming to King's Landing had been like a dream come true, and then her betrothal? It had been more than she could have ever hoped for. It had felt as though the Seven had finally answered her prayers.

_Silly little bird._

"So, my Lady, what say you of this _great_ honor?" the King chided, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the beginnings of an irritated frown, angry that she had not immediately fallen for his needling - that she hadn't simply broken and begged him to tell her the identity of her betrothed.

She opened her mouth, but to her horror, no words came out. She swallowed, throat fluttering, _panicked._ She'd practiced this for hours, she'd planned it all out, she'd made herself repeat every possible courtesy, every possible scenario the King's cruel mind might take, and yet now, she couldn't even get out so much as a word!

She held back a shudder as the King's hand fell across the handle of the crossbow that had been propped up against the Iron Throne, settling back into his chair as he caressed the ornate smithery with more care then she'd ever seen him bestow on anyone save for himself.

It was same one he'd threatened her with that day in this very room when he'd summoned her to answer for her brother's crimes, her brother's _victories_ in battle. Sandor had never come to her door, never asked for the cloak he'd draped over her shoulders that day. He'd covered her nakedness with dirty off-white, the weight of his hand alighting on her shoulder so very briefly before it'd disappeared - _fluttering and shapeless like a bird with a broken wing that was still trying to take flight._

She still had it. It was tucked safely in the very bottom of her trunk, stashed away from prying eyes and set aside with her most precious things. _The things she wanted to keep safe_.

The King was staring at her, his benevolent smile faltering. _Fake._

Just off to her right Sandor shifted, armor creaking, the leather buckles tightening, straining, as if every muscle in his body had suddenly pulled painfully taut.

She closed her eyes, willing her racing heart to calm. She could practically _taste_ his rage.

_Gods help her. Gods help them both._


	6. Chapter 6

"My apologies Your Grace, I am simply overcome with anticipation. Nothing would please me more than to hear the name of my intended," she replied, practically tripping over herself as she finally found her tongue.

The King huffed, hand stilling across the arch of his bow with something akin to disappointment. He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, like a child weathering some grand disappointment but still trying to put on a brave face.

 _He's looking for a reason,_ she realized. He wanted her to make a scene, to challenge him. _He wants an excuse to punish me again._

She bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted smelted copper.

"Your hesitation is understandable my Lady, considering the circumstances. Women suffer from a more delicate constitution than that of men, a lack of boldness, I suppose," the King replied, examining his fingernails idly before he straightened, clearly readying himself for something.

"As you say, Your Grace," the metallic tang of blood flooded across her tongue as she forced herself to look him in the eye. _He would not be the one to cow her, not again._

"But enough of these courtesies, enough stalling, I am sure my Lady has waited long enough for this happy announcement, her husband-to-be as well," Joffrey practically sang, all haughty arrogance and false smiles as Tyrion glowered, half hidden behind the shadow of his father.

One of the Hound's gloved hands tightened, curling into a brutal fist beside his scabbard. The worn black leather creaked audibly as she kept her eyes on the King. It looked like a promise, a punishment, like a single drop of blood dripping off Ser Payne's blade come execution day.

She swallowed a frightened whimper, half afraid that if she looked at him now, somehow they'd know. It would be all over for them both then, she knew that much. Her marriage might continue, considering her status, but him? He wouldn't live to see the dawn.

And yet, she yearned to know what he was thinking. _Did he feel it? Or was his anger for something else entirely? Or worse, herself? Gods, she would give anything just to know what he was-_

"I have gathered you all together, on this day, to announce the betrothal of Lady Sansa of House Stark to-"

Only no one was listening. The crowd rippled. There was a disturbance on the further most edge of the room, closest to the doors. And in mid-word, Joffrey's expression suddenly changed, _twisting_ like a child unsure of whether he should break out into tears or throw a tantrum.

She turned just as Ser Meryn drew his sword; clearly seeing something she could not as a frightened hush issued from the Lords and Ladies nearest to the commotion.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?!" the King yelled, voice pitching high in his rage as the shiver of unveiled steel echoed in the unnatural hush.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sandor shifted, one hand dropping to his sword belt as he remained by the King's side, glaring into the crowd as he tried to determine where the disturbance was coming from.

But as it turned out, neither of them had long to wait, because with a deafening murmur, the crowd suddenly parted. Men and women usually so reserved were sent scrambling, stumbling backwards and almost trampling over those behind them until a woman, ancient and cloaked in red, the color of the God of Light, was revealed within their midst.

A startled cry rose up from one of the ladies as the woman drew back her hood, and it was only when she stepped forward, walking with a surety and grace that seemed to negate her age, that she understood why.

Her hand flew up to her breast in horror.

The woman wasn't simply ancient, she was _desiccated_. Her features were wizened and sagging, milky eyes nearly lost in a sea of wrinkles, discolored by the dark spots that the elderly so often received in their later years, hallmarks of a life well lived. Only this was no natural thing. She was a specter, _a crone_ , something other worldly and wrong, with brittle bones and hollow cheeks. _Perhaps even death herself._

She shrunk backwards, expecting the King's Guard to rush forward. But nothing happened. And the King said nothing, _did_ nothing. The room was silent, shocked into an odd, fantastic stillness that took away her very breath.

The old woman, however, just smiled. Her teeth were gummy and yellowed as her lips pulled back in a graceless snarl. _What terrible will could keep such a thing alive?_

"Boy king…" the crone hissed, throwing back her hood as a thin clump of silver-grey hair shivered to the floor at her feet, the strands so delicate that they sprinkled into powder the moment they hit the flagstones, salting across the dark grey floor as she eyed Joffrey with a blistering glare. Her scalp was nearly bare save for a few wisps of pale white.

"Bastard King. _Failed King_. You're not even your _true_ father's son," she spat.

Behind her, Joffrey choked on a breath.

"Your soldiers missed a bastard when you ordered the cull on Robert Baratheon's unwanted litter. Sons and daughters no taller than the wheat your peasants are struggling to grow. And yet, _you_ rule."

"Tell me bastard, does it help you sleep at night knowing that children, a dozen, maybe more, died at your order? That a boy of nine - even a babe of not yet a year is dead and buried? _Does it?!_ " she hissed, venomous like only a woman wronged could rightly be.

And in spite of it all, in spite of the horror that was her face, the sunken state of her rheumy eyes and her mad ravings, comprehension slowly started to dawn. _Mother save her, the woman had lost her child to-_

"We are only as good as the masks we wear, your highness," the crone sneered, walking forward now, each footfall echoing through the Great Hall as the guards closest to the dais flinched in place, "and underneath yours there is nothing but a simpering, selfish child too coddled to know common sense and too cruel to care. You're a stunted cub trapped in a den of lions."

"I know your ilk, boy," the woman intoned, her thin, spidering hands steepled in front of her - a parody of a high born lady's grace, "grown men that turn tail and run - quaking in fear when the sun finally sets in the sky, readying itself for the long night."

"For it is in the dark that you are forced to face the truth, is it not?" she hissed, a string of spittle dribbling down her chin, brought forth by missing teeth and the terrible force she was leveling behind each and every word. "That you are _lacking_. _Insignificant._ That you are nothing more than the bastard son of incestuous lust, of _unnatural_ breeding."

Joffrey leapt to his feet, mouth dropping open to shout for his guards, but the crone just talked right over him, berating him like a mother to a disobedient child even though she had to crane her neck to remain level with him.

"You stink of fear, child. You're _choking_ in it. You fear, even amidst your livery, titles and glided things, that history will not be kind - that it will record you for what you _are_ , not what you _pretend_ to be. You fear that when the histories are written, your name will be forgotten, _unsung_. Your reign unmarked save for a small paragraph in some grand master's history of your House."

"…That you will be known as the _incompetent_ king, the _killer_ king. An untested waif that trembled with the knowledge that somewhere, there was a suckling babe, a child of summer, who bore the dead King's likeness – who was more _his_ child than _you_ ever were – who lived. Does it comfort you to know you stand unthreatened?!" the woman bit out, her red cloak suddenly billowing out behind her, as if caught in some sort of an unnatural wind. It belayed the stillness of the air as a frightened murmur rippled through the crowd at her back.

The delicate hairs on the back of her nape prickled, finding herself unable to look away as the woman's cloak swirled around her feet, expanding and contracting like a stream of blood seeping from an open wound.

The air around her was cloying and thick. Like the night before summer's first storm, everything was close. _Possible._ She wondered if the Hound could feel it. If he could feel the way the air was pressing down on them, choking and malignant, staggering under the weight of the cloaked woman's scorn.

_She could hardly bear it!_


	7. Chapter 7

Her hand flew to her breast, hiccupping through a ragged gasp when the woman suddenly turned. The crone’s milky red eyes fastened squarely on her - expression wild, yet strangely vindicated as the hag seemed to take her measure.

_What did she see? What could the woman want from her?_

Her lungs fluttered, caught in the act of trying to remember how to breathe. She drew in a shuddering breath, trying to find it in her to remain still as the woman’s eyes seemed to pierce right through her.

When the hag finally turned back to face the King, the relief was almost crippling.

“You do not know love, you _scorn_ it. That is why you will fail, why you will _always_ fail. For you cannot have, you cannot _cultivate_ , what you do not understand. You are a loveless creature, sullied and plain. There is no room in your heart for mercy, for honour. You are nothing but a shell. What right do you have to stand here, when so many others cannot? When my son-”

A gasp rose up, but the crone ignored it. Reinforcements from outside the hall were trying to push through the crowd; someone must have slipped out of the room to get help, but they were hindered by the sheer mass of people that had gathered to witness the King’s announcement.

There was a difference in the old woman’s tone now, something which could have been pity was now coloured with a cold sort of indifference, a resignation that went bone deep. She seemed as though she were preparing herself for something, almost as if she were about to-

Once again, the realization nearly took her breath away. _The woman was here to-_

But apparently she wasn’t the only one to realize it because it was only when the woman raised her arms towards the throne that Joffrey seemed to find his tongue.

“Seize that woman! Seize her in the name of the-”

But the crone was talking again, and before the King’s Guard could reach her-

“ _Boy king_ …” she growled, advancing on the throne, her steps feeble but unnaturally sure as she flicked a hand towards the red-faced Ser Meryn who was pushing through the crowd, his sword raised and about to strike her.

There was a crack, like the sound of ice shifting on a frozen river and the man suddenly froze in mid-pace. Every part of him from fingers to toes seemed to fuse as he remained motionless, expression caught in the middle of a brutal snarl as his green eyes, the only part of him capable of moving, darted back and forth wildly.

Somewhere behind her a lady fell back in a dead faint.

Joffrey’s face was like a child’s, deathly pale and trembling as his eyes darted from the woman to the frozen form of his King’s Guard. His mouth was open, moving soundlessly as the entire room fell still. Ser Meryn’s eyes just rolled in their sockets, his sword catching the low light as the crone coughed, her voice a viscous, phlegm-ridden rattle as she hit her stride.

“ _Killer King_ ,” the crone mocked. “Perhaps it’s time you mirror in body what you are in mind!” she cried, her voice hellish and rough as the shout echoed unnaturally through the great hall.

But it was _more_ than just a mere shout; it was almost as if a mountain were speaking from within her, gravelly and beyond scale. She felt the vibrations through her very bones as the crone’s eyes flashed, speaking words in a language she didn’t understand before hell-fire _spat_ from her veins.

_Magic!_

Individual curls of flame licked out from underneath her skin, escaping from within as a blast of red flowed through her. It arrowed down her veins – royal blue and withering - and out through her fingertips as a rush of magic pulsed through the air, spearing towards the throne as Joffrey flinched, jerking away from the flare.

The air shifted, _changing_. And like water beading down a pane of glass, she _felt_ more than _saw_ the Hound begin to move.

It wasn’t until later, _much_ later and after more than a few glasses of wine, that she realized she’d been equally in danger. Because the same moment the words of power had left the woman’s lips, she’d shifted. But rather than turning away from it, she’d turned _into_ it, instinctively looking to Sandor as liquid fire climbed the walls, ember-hot and glowing.

Perhaps it was a soldier’s intuition or maybe it was just the man himself, but before she could scream, before Joffrey could duck away, Sandor was already moving.

The man’s white cape swirled as he pivoted. A thick arm whipped out, slamming the King clear off the dais and out of harm - tumbling backwards in a billow of resplendent silk and a pitching cry. Yet, in the same motion he grabbed her waist, yanking her backwards, pulling her into him as the room spun and a blast of heat, hotter than any fire, whipped past her cheek.

He shielded her with his body, turning them just in time, saving her as a flash of fire exploded around the curve of his armour, flickering and crackling until it warmed the flagstones at their feet like dragon’s breath.

She felt the impact through his back, his armour taking the brunt of it as his hand tightened around her waist. He shielded her as the magic shattered through the still, sucking the life from the very air. But he held her close, enveloping her as every muscle in his body seemed to tense, crouching low as the sheer force of it brought them to their knees.

The harshness of his stubble burnt across her nape as he grunted. It wasn’t until later that she’d remember his ruined cheek pressing against the arc of her throat, sinking into her as he shuddered. He’d almost curled into himself before one thick hand shot out, balancing above her precariously.

Every millimetre of her skin had been covered with his. _Protective._

The same moment the awful force of the spell lessened, the haze of red behind her lids disappeared, glowing brightly one moment only to fade into dark in the next. She blinked, uncertain as the Hound wobbled behind her, suddenly off balance now that the weight of the spell had been lifted.

_She didn’t remember closing her eyes._

She breathed. He breathed. _They breathed._ He shifted behind her, the press of his groin hot against her back as he straightened. She could feel the heat of him, the coarseness of his breathing, the unsettled thrum of his pulse as his gloves scored across the curve of her chest, rubbing, just so, against one of her ribs. The movement was unconscious, innocent, and she took heart from it. It was all the affirmation she needed to remind her that they were both still there. _Together_.

The Hound sucked in a breath and choked on it. The sound provided a stark contrast as somewhere behind the dais, Joffrey whimpered. _Boy King_.

The room was deadly still, poised on a dagger’s edge as a queer sound echoed above their heads, deafening and close. She caught sight of the crown just before it reached the edge of the dais, following its progress as it rolled down the steps, clattering dully as the entire room stood spellbound – _watching._

She couldn’t help but think it strange when it came to rest at her feet, jerky and awkward without a head to hold it. Her lip curled. _Empty thing._

After that, everything seemed to happen at once. Ser Meryn snapped out of his trance, joining the King’s Guard as they converged on the woman in red. The crone, for her part, shrieked in rage, her great revenge thwarted, held fast by at least seven men as she writhed and struggled with a strength belaying her age. And to their credit, rather than stand on ceremony and wait for the King’s word, she was swiftly gagged and dragged from the room, lest she regain the power to try again.

On the other side of the dais, the small council rushed to the King’s side, helping him rise as the entire court dissolved into frightened yells and angry cries. Joffrey’s voice was chief among them as he demanded the crone be brought back and made to answer for her crimes. He was raving, almost to the point of hysteria as the Queen tried vainly to calm him, daubing at a cut on his cheek before he pushed her away with a vicious snarl.

“Dog!” the King yelled, quaking in rage as he clambered onto the dais, bringing the room to an unsteady calm as Lord Baelish called for silence.

“Bring her to me! She will feel the weight of the King’s justice for this treason! This was a foul plot! An insidious attempt on my life and honour! There will be no mercy for this outrage, I will-”

Sandor reared, as if to answer, before he suddenly halted, remaining hunched over for a long moment - collecting himself, before he wove unsteadily to his feet.

“Muzzle her and bring her back! She will answer for this travesty!” the King raged, not seeming to notice that his dog had made no move to carry out his orders. She could feel the eyes of the entire room shift onto them, ignoring the King even as he fell back into his seat, fingers clenched, claw-like around the armrests of the Iron Throne.

Somewhere above her, the Hound drew a sharp breath, as if he were trying to recover from some sort of blow, stance shifting. Something was wrong, he wasn’t-

She felt drunk. She felt like a woman overtaken with fever when she finally looked up, forcing herself to see the wrongness she knew in her heart was already there as his hand firmed around his sword belt - tightening until the leather creaked, desperate for something to steady him.

He looked like a puppet that’d been freshly snipped from its strings, graceless and limp as he looked around him with a mere shadow of his usual stony glare.

Her curls were wild and tangled around her face as she watched him pull on his collar, acting like a man starved for air as he forced himself to straighten, unsteady and strangely directionless. His eyes were unfocused, _uncomprehending_ until he caught sight of her, still sprawled in an ungraceful heap at his feet.

“Little bird, are you?”

She watched with a horrified, yet detached sort of interest as his features started to blur. His hair thinned, losing its unruly coarseness as his beard began to do the same. It vanished back into his skin as the edges of his burn began to shimmer, warping and twisting until it too disappeared from sight, leaving nothing but smooth, unmarred skin as a collective gasp rose up behind them.

_The magic!_

He blinked, mouth fish-tailing as he ripped off his glove. His thick fingers ran down his skin almost wonderingly as he took stock of himself, perhaps for the first time since his childhood as she stared up at him in undisguised hunger.

He was handsome, in a rough-shot sort of way. The lack of his scar lent more focus to his strong brow and expressive eyes. She realized that the scar had only served to make him look more menacing, fierce and violent in a way that overshadowed his natural features.

_And despite how daft it sounded, she found herself immediately missing his scar._

His armour sagged across his shoulders, chest deflating, like air being let out of an empty wine skin as his sword belt slid down his waist. It hit the floor with the unforgiving clang of metal meeting stone as the lacings of his boots suddenly slackened.

One of his gloves fluttered to the floor at her feet, followed by its twin not a second later as the bilious thing slipped right off his hand in mid-gesture. It was almost as if every article of clothing had suddenly become five sizes too large. He was sinking into himself, she realized, like a turtle retreating into its shell. He stumbled backwards, losing his balance as his chin dipped into the collar of his jerkin.

No! Not shrinking, he was getting _younger_!

The King leapt to his feet, and quite suddenly everything around her was chaos. Someone behind her was yelling about demons and mages from across the sea. Half the crowd was crying out, panicking, while the other had frozen as the entire room seemed to realize what was happening at the same time.

For a fire had started to glow within him. It was shining through his fingers as Sandor raised a hand, terror and wonder struggling for place as his features regressed. The glow seemed to radiate from his very bones, like a fire born on the inside. A wave of heat, flickering flames and scalded air, hit her when she reached forward, forcing her to recoil asred flames spat forth from his open palm.

He caught her gaze before it happened, before the glow exploded outwards, sending her toppling off the dais with sheer force of it. Letting loose a firestorm of red and orange spirals that exploded through the vaulted windows, muting the torches and shrouding the room in darkness save for the one point of light that remained. _Him._

And for the first time since she’d laid eyes on him all those months ago, just before the blast of red sent her flying; she caught his gaze and saw fear reflecting back at her.

_The Hound was afraid._


	8. Chapter 8

It was a handful of hours, perhaps as many as two or three, before she was summoned to the King's court. And in all honesty, she'd spent the majority of them pacing. She'd dismissed her servants, finding they were only getting in the way, trying their best to calm her, to distract her as the courtyard below filled with gossipers and naysayers.

What had happened in the throne room was, by decree of the King, a complete secret, so naturally, by mid-day, the entire castle knew about it. And for the time being, it appeared that was how it would stay. Indeed, it seemed as though wherever she turned she heard snippets of the crone's words or people describing how the King had done nothing – standing like an uncertain child as the Hound had saved him. She heard conversation regarding even herself, experiencing the moment again and again as she heard his deeds recounted in detail. How he'd turned, pulling her in as close as a lover, shielding her from the blast, sacrificing himself to save her as the magic had-

_Merciful mother!_

She offered a silent prayer in mid-pace, halting by her dresser and sinking down onto the cushions as she turned the moment over in her mind. He  _had_ saved her. Of that there could be no doubt. But more than that, it'd been the expression on his face when he'd seen her. Something that could have been relief - could have been concern, fear, perhaps even an odd, downtrodden joy before he'd called to her.

_Little bird._

Not so long ago it had been a jape, a cruel little metaphor he used whenever he felt she was being especially foolish - only somewhere along the line that had changed. It'd become something more, an expression of fondness, of  _feeling_  - undeniable and strong. And while she didn't know exactly what'd driven him to use it, especially in front of all those people, what she _did_  know, was it was a gift he gave to remarkably few.

_The whispers be damned._

But she didn't get any more time to dwell on it, because before she could finish the thought, Shae burst through the door. The King had demanded her presence in the throne room and would broach no delay. She managed to change her gown, switching from Tully blue to Stark grey, choosing a coal-coloured frock with silver and green trim as Shae brushed out her hair before Ser Meryn knocked on her door for the second time that day.

She couldn't help but stare as she approached the throne. But it wasn't Joffrey that held her interest, not even the side of his jaw, already tinged dark with what promised to be a truly magnificent bruise. She had eyes only for the Hound. She found him in naught but a heartbeat, held stiffly in the arms of one of the Queen's maids, his bottom half swaddled in a length of snow-white cotton, gumming at his fingers at he looked around at the room at large.

He looked much like she'd left him, smooth skinned and lost amidst a sea of armour and empty clothing. He'd been red faced and squalling as the King's Guard had pushed people out of the room, clearing the hall as the King screeched for calm. She remembered peeking over the dais, the Small Council close at her back, gathering above him, speechless and shell shocked.

His shock of dark brown hair had seemed stark against his smooth, baby-soft skin. And like a woman possessed she'd crawled to him, ears still ringing with the force of the blast as somewhere behind her, the Queen called for the court physician.

She'd reached out, unthinking, one hand hovering above a flailing little fist before she lost heart. His face had been scrunched up in rage, mouth working between tears, confused, almost as if he expected words to burst forth. Her heart had plummeted. He'd been a mess of little fingers, little toes, little  _everything_. A man, once well over six head tall, was now nothing more than a babe,  _a yearling_ , half-naked and proud.

But before she could do anything more, Joffrey had yelled and someone had grasped her by the shoulders, pulling her away as a gaggle of the Queen's handmaidens ushered her from the room. But before the doors of the Great Hall slammed shut, she'd caught sight of Lord Varys bending down, pulling the younger Clegane free from the tangle of cloth before the Queen herself swept over. She cradled him with a delicacy that belayed her temper. An expression unlike any other gracing her face as she held him up, a strange mixture of genuine concern and unimaginable loss before the doors had hushed closed behind her, masking the room from sight.

What was it the crone had said?  _It was time to mirror in body what you are in mind?_ The spell had been meant for  _Joffrey_  and yet it was  _Sandor_ who was suffering for it. She wondered if the crone had been telling the truth, if her son had truly been one of King Robert's bastards. Considering the woman's age, it didn't seem possible. And yet, the rage the woman had possessed – the enormity of  _feeling_ behind her actions told her otherwise.

She swallowed hard, blinking back a few unshod tears.  _Courage_ , she reminded herself. She had to be strong now, strong for the  _both_  of them.

She bowed respectfully when she reached the bottom of the dais, hesitating until the King nodded, flicking his fingers towards her dismissively and motioned for her to rise. She couldn't help but notice that his accustomed arrogance had noticeably cooled since their last audience, with his gaze remarkably distant as he looked off to the side, avoiding her eyes.

Lord Baelish, Lord Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle all inclined their heads respectfully, returning her bow as she forced herself to acknowledge them. She pried her gaze from small bundle in the woman's arms when she realized their eyes seemed to follow her regardless of where she looked. It felt as though they were measuring her as she waited for the King to address her.

Their suddenly interest was more than a little unnerving.

The Queen stepped forward, hardly missing a beat when it became apparent that her son wasn't in the mood to speak. Her embroidered, red leather shoes echoed impressively across the flagstones as she walked up the dais.

"Lady Sansa," she began, "his grace, my son, has summoned you here to inform of you of a new duty you shall perform while the King deals with matters of great import to the Seven Kingdoms." She gazed around the room with an expression so hard that one of guardsmen actually shifted in discomfort.

"Given the nature of recent events there is much to be done, and quickly. Allies must be reassured and enemies reminded that such treasonous acts against the crown will not be tolerated," the Queen reproached, staring down at her like  _she_ was such a person - daring her to comment otherwise as Joffrey huffed, ill-tempered and restless on the Iron Throne.

"…Therefore, his royal highness has charged you with the care of Ser Sandor Clegane until he regains both body and mind when this wretched curse comes to an end," the Queen commanded.

The blood left her face in a rush.  _Her?!_  A million questions, a million anxieties and uncertainties rushed to the surface as her nerves got the better of her.

_What?! They couldn't possibly expect her to-_

"You can take heart in the fact that your burden shall likely be quite brief, my dear," Lord Varys imparted, distracting her, hands lost in his sleeves as he stepped forward, waiting for the Queen's nod before he continued.

"He shall be restored then, my lord?" she asked, unable to stop herself from blurting out the thought as it came to her as hope rose, heady and fledging in her breast.  _She prayed that the Seven would make it so; she wouldn't be able to bear it otherwise._

And as if he were mirroring her thoughts, somewhere off to her left, just over the curve of her shoulder, Sandor let go of a needy little whimper.

"It is quite likely, my lady, in fact, I have little doubt," Lord Varys' replied, looking remarkably pleased with the entire affair. He leaned down, as if taking her into his confidence despite the fact that he spoke loud enough for the room to hear.

"Blood magic is a powerful tool, powerful, but not without consequence. It requires sacrifice. And often that price is greater than the worth of the magic itself, which is why most people who choose to invoke such powers arrange for another to suffer the consequence," Lord Baelish interjected, joining the discussion with a respectful nod to the throne as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

The mocking bird at his throat flashed in the low light. She swallowed hard, imagining its piping laughter.

"But in this case, the woman did not. She sacrificed her remaining years and quite likely her youth as well, considering the power of this spell, to make all this possible - to enact her revenge," Varys added, motioning towards the squirming bundle as the Hound, now a pup, voiced his displeasure to the world at large.

"However, blood magic is magic of the most basic form; it is elemental, feral, and as such, notoriously hard to control. It is specific to the person who created it and, of course, to the intended victim. This spell was created for the King and the King alone. Such targeted spells rarely have the same effect on those it was not intended for. And to be sure, his armour may have protected him from the full force of the spell itself," Lord Varys concluded, speaking a bit louder as he neared the end as Sandor started to wail.

It was a thin, reedy little sound that made her heart ache. But instead of seeking to comfort him, the woman holding him only winced - acting like whatever ailed him was somehow contagious as she kept the pup at an arm's length, as far away from her as possible as his red face screwed up in childish rage

Joffrey's expression grew irritated – watching with a detached sort of interest as one of the maids tried to distract the babe with a length of ribbon. Sandor, however, was having none of it.

"Since my dog sacrificed himself to protect _you_ , ensuring  _his_  welfare shall be your responsibility," the King added haughtily, speaking for the first time since she'd arrived, startling her as she realized her gaze was still on the babe behind her. She wrenched her eyes away, forcing herself to look impassive and endlessly graceful as the King stared down at her with a horrid expression.

"I will do my best, Your Grace," she replied with a curtsy, nodding dutifully, recalling her septa's words on a lady's politeness as anger smoldered high in her breast, feeling the uncommon urge to strike the smirk right off his face as he examined one of his nails, exuding boredom like a fine wine before he replied.

Her temper, however muted, flared.  _He didn't care about the Hound. He just cared about the inconvenience!_ The crone was right, he wasn't a true King.  _Gods, he wasn't even a true man! Even a dog deserved better! …Her dog._

"See that you do, my lady. And let us hope that my dog will not have to suffer long for the sake of his knightly courtesies," Joffrey added, the unspoken accusation clear as a surge of bile threatened to rise in her throat.

Sandor, for his part, just cried all the  _louder_. And honestly, she couldn't find it in her to blame him.


	9. Chapter 9

She hadn't been in her rooms for more than an hour before a timid knock issued from the thick oak of her chamber door. Believing it to be one of her maids, she wasn't ashamed to admit that her reaction was relief - filtering through her like a draught of cool water on a warm summer's day.

Her head was pounding and Sandor's cries were echoing clear down the hall and beyond. It didn't matter what she did – or indeed,  _didn't_ do - he would not calm. Fat tears had crusted his tiny cheeks with salt tracks, his ruddy face tinged red as he let his displeasure be known to  _everyone_  within hearing distance.

She opened the door, fumbling with the lock in her haste, only to feel slightly let down when a young woman she didn't recognize, nearly dwarfed behind a towering mound of fabric, blinked owlishly in the torchlight.

_Mother save her, where in gods' name was Shay?_

"Compliments of the Queen, my lady," the servant replied, giving her a shallow curtsey as she spoke around the pile in her arms, biting her lip as she tried to maintain her balance.

She bid the woman forward, letting her through as Sandor's indignant wails echoed down the hall, wincing as his screams only intensified, bouncing off the walls of the corridor before she closed the door behind her.

_Gods, she was at her wit's end!_

"I assist the royal quarter master, miss. My name is Rhoja," the woman hummed, setting down her burden atop one of the dressers, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Sandor was still screeching. Pudgy little limbs flailed in every direction from his place on her mattress, tucked smartly into one of the lamb-skin blankets she'd brought from Winterfell.

She couldn't help but thumb the rich fabric on the top of the pile.  _Swaddling clothes_ , she realized. But more than that, there were shifts and soft blankets, enough to clothe an entire nursery – let alone a single, ill-tempered babe.

"The Queen wanted to ensure you'd have everything you needed to tend to the little lord, my lady," Rhoja commented, good natured to a fault as she started organizing the clothing in stacks by the window, clearly curious as she looked around the room with a eager eye.

Sandor gurgled through a hiccup, seeming to surprise himself for a moment before he resumed his crying. She shook her head.  _Mother preserve her! As if the man himself hadn't been hard enough to deal with!?_

"So kind," she murmured, meaning it for the first time in a long time as she sorted through a selection of loin cloths and gauze diapers with undisguised gratitude. She raised a brow when she realized that the prevailing colors were yellow and black – the colors of the Clegane house and banners. The attention to detail, even on so small a thing, genuinely surprised her.

_The queen had certainly been generous._

"Oh my, iron lungs, that one," the woman commented as Sandor's cries increased yet again in volume. The serving woman threw her a lop-sided grin that was absent of more than a few teeth as she tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear, arranging the last stack of clothing with a pleased sigh.

"May I?" Rhoja asked, indicating towards the bed, bobbling out another curtsy when she turned around to face her, surprised. Her auburn curls were harried and perhaps even a bit unruly around her face as the depth of the woman's offer fully sunk in. She shook herself, attempting to best the fog that had taken up residence ever since Sandor had been placed in her arms and Ser Blout had escorted her back to her chambers.

_It was still such a blur._

"Please," she replied, uncaring of how desperate she sounded as Sandor continued to squall in the background.  _She didn't know what she was doing wrong. She'd never had such problems looking after Brann and Rickon. She wasn't-_

"Hush now," Rhoja soothed, scooping him up and bouncing him on her hip with a familiarity she immediately envied, apparently undeterred when the babe's eyes widened, growing large in the face of this newest travesty before slitting with rage. Indeed, Sandor was positively  _howling_ now - enough that the snatches of conversation drifting in from the courtyard hushed at the sheer force of it.

The woman's stubby fingers immediately went to his gums, feeling along the line of his front, then bottom teeth before she snapped up one of the thin, cotton towels she'd arrived with and draped it over her shoulder. She murmured soothing words and what she strongly believed was actually gibberish as the woman bounced him lightly over her shoulder, gently tapping him on the back as one of Sandor's grubby little hands fastened around a spit of hair poking out of her cap, pulling in a way that had to be painful.

It was hardly a moment later that the pup let go of a mighty belch. It was the type of sound that really had no business coming from so small a thing in the first place, strangely on par with a man recovering from a night at the wine sinks as the serving woman laughed uproariously.

And like a candle freshly snuffed out from flame, the babe stopped crying immediately.

The pause was awkward.

"You have children?" she asked faintly, relishing the sudden quiet.

"Six brothers and sisters my lady, all younger" Rhoja replied, her smile surprisingly gentle as she bounced Sandor on her hip, making the pup gurgle and squeal as he took in this new view of the world with a raptness that made her do a double take.

_Fickle thing!_

"Seems like he just had a case of the vapours is all," the woman commented, wiping away the last vestiges of tears from the pup's cheeks as she gently pried open his fist and got him to release her hair.

"Thought it might be teething, they get right cranky when their teeth are comin' in, but I don't think his milk teeth are likely to be bothering him just yet," Rhoja added, chattering on happily as Sandor shot her a watery smile from across the room.

She felt like collapsing in her chair and not stirring until May Day.  _Gods, how had her lady mother borne five children into this world and not felt as drained as she?_ She was as good as her word as she sat down in the chair beside the window, smoothing the folds of her skirts with a tired sigh.

Was nothing _ever_  as it was in the stories?

She was brought back to the matter at hand when Rhoja cleared her throat, still holding Sandor firm to her hip as the babe stared wide-eyed, seeming to look right at her as the serving woman hiked him up a fraction.

"Beggin' your pardon m' lady, I don't mean to pry or speak above m'self," Rhoja began, seemingly hesitant for the first time since she'd arrived. "But I just wanted to say, it's a kind thing you're doing here, looking after 'im and all."

"Most of us have little love for the Hound, frightened of him more than anything. But honestly, most of us can agree that he's never once mistreated us," the woman offered, brow furrowing, if only slightly, as she made to continue.

"Some lords – some knights and soldiers, like to take advantage, if you catch my meaning. But the Hound has never laid a finger on someone who hasn't deserved it or – well, hasn't  _wanted_  it," Rhoja hastened to add, a tinge of pink coloring her ruddy cheeks as she kept her eyes firmly on the opposing wall – anywhere but on her.

_What did she mean 'hadn't wanted it?'_

"…He gets on well with most of the cooks, no one is rightly sure why. After all, he's not exactly the friendly sort, is he? But some of them practically  _dote_  on him, miss! Most of them say they just like the sort that truly appreciates their craft. And no one can doubt that, the Hound is  _always_  hungry after all," Rhoja continued, clearly so caught in up the moment and the sheer richness of the gossip that she forgot about being too forward.

But the woman needn't have worried, in fact it was quite the opposite. She was paying rapt attention, stowing away every word, every inflection for further thought and dissection later. It wasn't often anyone spoke so freely about the man, not unless it was to curse his name or regale a story about a night spent at the gaming tables or the wine sinks down in Fleabottom.

She watched off-handedly as something on the other side of the room caught the pup's attention.  _It was the mirror_ , she realized. He'd caught his reflection in her looking glass.

 _What do you see?_ She wondered, watching him watch himself as his expression changed, going from idle curiosity to a blatant sort of attention she would have said was unusual for a babe his age.

_He was staring at himself like he'd never seen himself before._

"…One of the women who works the kitchens, one of the pastry cooks - Millie is her name, is quite fond of him. She's forever setting things aside for him, meat pies and little sweetmeats mostly. And he must feel something of the same, because when her old man came home drunk one night last year and roughed her up something fierce, he beat that man so far into the ground he  _stayed_  there - if you catch my meaning, my lady," Rhoja finished, trailing off a bit awkwardly when she made no move to reply.

She blinked, emerging from her unruly thoughts just in time to see the woman staring back at her, expression uncertain; as if afraid she had somehow misjudged her good will and temper.

"My apologies miss, my master is forever telling me I go on if I'm given half a breath," Rhoja replied hesitantly, sending her a worried smile as Sandor started chewing on his fingers, content for the moment, to entertain himself.

She swallowed, uncertain of how to reply. She yearned to ask for details to learn more of the man. She wanted to know how he acted with those below him. What foods did he favour? What colors did he wear when alone? His life was a mystery she'd only just taken upon herself to solve and she hardly knew where to start. She didn't know who he was when his armour came off, physically and metaphorically speaking - or if it _ever_  did. She didn't know what he liked, save for killing, gaming and drinking, she didn't even know if he-

But at the same time she knew she couldn't.  _It wasn't proper after all._

"You are very kind, but the King has entrusted me with his welfare," she began, forcing her tone to level as she chose her words carefully.

"Of course m'lady," Rhoja answered, quick to reply in a way that made her think that the woman knew she hadn't meant a word of it. And while she wasn't about to say otherwise, she had to admit she was surprised when the woman pressed her hand against the length of cotton that had been wrapped around the pup's bottom half like a diaper.

"It seems as though the little lord is in need of a change," she teased, "if you will allow me, my lady?"

She nodded, wordless, grateful for the help.

The woman deftly set about her task, laying him down on the dresser with a cloth pressed over his groin, pinning the sides of one of the diapers she'd arrived with firmly around his hips. "You have to be careful of the boys, my lady, a hint of fresh air and they're bound to go off like a leaky chamber pot," Rhoja remarked sagely, wetting a cloth and giving the pup's face a good scrubbing while she was there - clucking as the Hound huffed and squirmed.

She grinned in spite of herself, remembering well the first time she'd changed Rickon. She didn't fancy getting a mouthful of hot urine ever again, Hound or not.

"There will be someone by within the hour to deliver a cradle, seems as though they are having trouble finding one since it's been so long since the Queen's last babe. If there's nothing more, my lady?" the woman asked.

"That will be fine, Rhoja," she replied, gifting her with a smile and a pleasant look as the woman nodded, curtsying respectfully. "Please pass on my thanks to the Queen and your master for their generosity and thoughtfulness," she added, meaning every word as the serving girl set Sandor back down on the mattress.

The woman curtsied again and left, closing the door quietly as Sandor mumbled nonsense at her retreating back, his tiny brow furrowing with displeasure until she crossed the room and sat down carefully beside him.

_So small a thing…_

It wasn't until the woman left that she allowed herself a moment to truly take him in. He was a sturdy thing, not reedy and thin like Rickon and Brann had been, but built stronger, longer, wider – yet not large without purpose. In short, for a man like the Hound, it seemed only proper.

She smiled, watching him wriggle across the sheep skin. She could see hints of him – of the man - in the curve of his face, the set of his brow, even the impossibly soft dark brown hair that curled across his head seemingly without pattern – wild and almost in ringlets as he looked up at her with clear interest.

She wondered if Lord Varys was right about the blood magic. Fear rose in her breast, sickening and fast at the thought.  _What if he didn't return to his original state? What if this was permanent? What if the man she-_

She jerked back when a tiny little fist grazed across the bridge of her nose, caught off guard as he squealed with laughter. He looked tremendously pleased with himself as her long curls swished back and forth above him, just out of his reach as he arched his little back, grubby fingers straining to snatch it.

"Sandor!" she reproached, wriggling a finger down at him playfully as his dark grey eyes went wide, surprising her as he suddenly stilled.  _Perhaps it had been her tone, or volume, or maybe even the use of the word itself. She hadn't meant to-_

She stared down at the babe - slightly intimidated when he stared right back. In fact, she was surprised to note there was even a hint of his old defiance shining right back at her, as if daring her to even so much as  _think_  about changing him.

_Gods, what had she gotten herself into?_


	10. Chapter 10

It was well into the evening, with Shae having come and gone with her supper when another knock issued from her chamber door. Sandor had been fitful and cranky for hours, prone to wailing then trailing off, sleeping only a few minutes at a time before the whole cycle started back up again. In many ways it was actually worse than his outright screaming, there was a pitch to it that worried her more than anything.

_Seven give her strength._

When she opened the door, the pitching yowl of Sandor's unhappy cry echoed all the way from his cradle. But the woman, a mousy, dirty blond thing with deep dimples and a sharp nose simply blinked back at her, seemingly unrattled by the noise as she dipped her head and nodded respectfully.

She stared at the woman uncertainly.  _What was she here for?_ One of the Queen's page boys had already been down with the cradle Rhoja had promised her, well before supper in fact.  _What other boons could the Queen possibly shower her with now?_

"Good evening m'lady, name's Hettia," the woman began, doe-eyed and looking like she was in the middle of suppressing a yawn. "…The Queen sent me, m'lady? To feed the little Lord?" the woman added, eying her speculatively when she'd made no move to let the woman enter.

_Gods be good! Of course!_

Mentally she berated herself. She hadn't even considered.

_The woman was a wet nurse._

"Yes, please, come in," she replied eagerly, almost beseeching as Sandor fussed in his crib, clearly displeased with being both hungry  _and_ ignored as the buxom woman made a bee-line to his side.

"I would have been by sooner but Grand Maester Pycelle's memory isn't as good as it used to be. He neglected to get the message over to the nursery before my appointment with Lady Leanyia's boys. Twins you know – their mother nearly died on the birthing bed and sometime during her sickness her milk dried clear up. It's a shame, really," the blonde imparted, apparently not one to stand on ceremony as she scooped Sandor up with a soothing hum, settling herself down on the chair by the window as she examined the pup from head to toe.

She had a sleepy look to her, something that probably struck others as particular considering it was not yet fully evening. She looked like she hadn't had a proper night's sleep in years – which, considering her profession, was probably quite accurate. She was pretty, but tired, with deeply punched lines underneath her eyes. Even the laces of her ample bodice were tied almost lazily, as if she'd only finished dressing herself a few moments earlier.

Sandor just cried, his cheeks red and movements fitful.  _Hungry._

"He's of good size my lady, healthy too, he'll grow up strong I reckon - a warrior – a solider no doubt," the woman remarked, gifting her with an honest smile that was both innocent and apparently completely uncomprehending of the situation.

Embarrassment heated her cheeks, the beginning strains of shame rippling through her like a single pebble disturbing the smoothness of one of the ponds down in the gardens. She cleared her throat, feigning thirst as she crossed to her dresser and poured herself a flagon of water.

 _The woman didn't know._  She shook her head, the long waves of her auburn hair shimmering prettily across her shoulders.  _Only the mother knows how she'd managed to miss it considering the serving folks tendency to gossip._

"He isn't mine," she blurted; the woman's attention doing little to quell the heat flaming across her cheeks as she suddenly realized how this must look.  _A secret assignment, no sign of a husband, Joffrey had known!_   _He'd known how this would affect her reputation. He would have known that-_

"I have been entrusted with his care," she decided faintly, willing surety and authority into her voice as the woman hefted Sandor in her arms, checking his cloth diaper. Her movements were easy and well-practiced despite the fact that the pup was still wailing loud enough to be heard all the way to the kitchens.

"As you say, my lady," Hettia replied, side eying her behind the fan of her long lashes until she got the distinct impression that the woman – as shocking as it was to consider - actually  _didn't_ believe her.

 _No matter, the woman would find out soon enough._ At King's Landing there were no such thing as a secret, everything and everyone could be bought, one only needed to level the right price. She'd learned that a long time ago.

She watched with polite, but undisguised curiosity as the woman undid her bodice. Her fingers were red and splotchy from past work in the kitchens but she handled the laces deftly, letting the flaps of the front fastening dress hang down to her waist as she bared her right breast.

Sandor squirmed, clearly unimpressed when the woman propped him up, bumping his cheek against her teat once, then twice until suddenly,  _miraculously,_ he turned his head and started suckling.

She could tell the moment he took his first pull; there was a certain raptness in his expression, something basic and perhaps even instinctive as one tiny little hand firmed against the curve of the woman's engorged breast. There was an expression on his face – almost as if everything had suddenly fallen into place.

"He is a good eater," Hettia remarked with a sigh. "You're lucky miss, some babes have a hard time taking to the breast. I've just started weaning Lady Leanyia's boys, so I have more than enough for the little master," she cooed, thumbing a pudgy little cheek as Sandor's eyes drifted closed.

She didn't say anything, finding herself unable to divert her attention from the sight in front of her as something deep in her chest  _ached._

"He was just hungry, miss. Nothing sickly could wail like that. Healthy as a horse this one," Hettia offered. "My first was sickly; he had the colic, screamed from sun up to sun down."

She nodded politely, wondering off-handedly what Sandor's childhood had been like. What he'd been like  _before_  the fire, _before_  Gregor had ruined both his face and his dreams. Had he dreamt of-

"Ooouch, no teeth little one," Hettia remarked, tapping his nose and arranging him so he could nurse unobstructed. The babe took to it as naturally as breathing, cheeks hollowing in an effort to guzzle as much as possible. In fact, the sight was strangely reminiscent of how Sandor took to a wine skin.

Discomfort rose in the back of her throat at the thought. It was such a strange thing, seeing him like this, trying to broach the divide between the pup and the hound. She'd tried to see them as separate, but had already found it too disconcerting. Finding herself woefully unable to separate her feelings as her thoughts ran away from her, half-wild and uncertain.

Instead, she prayed to both the old gods and the new, silently mouthing the words of prayers she'd known by heart in her girlhood as Sandor suckled contentedly in the background.

_Mother help him. Restore him to the man he was. Please…_

She watched him all through that first night; half afraid he would disappear completely, half hopeful the magic might reverse itself as she waited. She listened to the cadence of his steady little breaths as twilight turned into dusk and the stars shone brightly in the cloudless sky.

He frowned in his sleep, restless and tired.

She wondered if he dreamt of fire.


	11. Chapter 11

The queen came to call on her the next morning.

Hettia had already come and gone, promising to be back before mid-day. Shae had been in and out all morning, delivering her breakfast and tending to her duties. But even then, she'd hardly had enough time to smooth her frock and change Sandor when a knock issued from the other side of her chamber door.

She startled backwards, almost tripping over herself when the Queen, resplendent in a green and gold embroidered gown, hair braided and pinned loose, around her shoulders pushed past her. The woman left her guards outside and did a circuit around her chambers.  _Sleek and composed, like a lioness circling her den._

She couldn't help but gape.

"My Queen," she murmured, remembering her courtesies just in time as she bowed, letting her body rest against the solid oak for a smattering of seconds before she closed the door behind her, "if I'd known you wished to see me, I would have come to you. I-"

"Nonsense," the Queen responded, her tone harsh and uninviting, seemingly at odds with the word itself as she turned around. Seemingly drawn to the cradle as Sandor gummed at the corner of his shift - a pretty thing made of dark yellow cotton, boasting simple laces and a flared bottom.

"Not with a babe this young. I remember well when my children were this age," Cersei remarked, her tone warping the kind words until they sounded almost biting. "You feel as if there is not enough time in the day. Scarcely enough hours for feedings and changings that you realize it is well past noon and you have yet to leave your own chambers."

It took her a moment to realize that the woman wasn't even looking at her. Instead she crossed the room towards the cradle in a flutter of heavy silks, a small smile flirting with the corners of her lips as she examined the pup held safely within.

"A dark beauty," she murmured, an expression that could have either been fondness or stomach ills gracing her fine features. The distinction was lost on her. She feared she hadn't seen enough of the woman to get an accurate measure. After all, it was rare that she saw anything other than a mocking smile and aloofness from the Queen Mother of late.

But if the woman was looking for a reply, she gave no sign. Apparently content with letting the pup paw at her finger – capturing it with a surprisingly dexterous little grab before stuffing his free hand squarely into his mouth, gurgling happily despite the serious expression on his face.

She wasn't sure what to think when Cersei actually  _smiled._

"He favors his mother now, pity he didn't keep any of it as he aged," Cersei commented. "She was considered a great beauty, you know," letting the moment rest before she continued, one hand smoothing across the babe's pale yellow shift as the muted hum of conversation drifted in from the open window.

"Gregor, if rumour is to be believed, was the spitting image of their late father, both in appearance and manner since he was old enough to take his first steps," the woman remarked, lips twisting, as if to shake the words away all the faster.

"He was a terror as a child, I hear. It was this one who was the quiet one," the Queen concluded, gently prying her finger free from the babe's grasp – smoothing a tuft of his dark brown hair before she straightened.

_Why was she here? The Queen never came to call on anyone, least of all her, a disgraced daughter – her son's cast off queen. Was she here to gloat? To ease her suffering? Or-_

"Though, I suppose a dog has no need of looks – what is it the scribes so often say? It is one's deeds and accomplishments that truly last, that are carried on in song long after looks have been forgotten?" she mused, a hard expression stealing across her fine features, darkening the arcs of her high cheekbones until she looked almost gaunt.

The woman looked tired, terrifying, but weary. _Almost_   _delicate._

"Yes my lady," she replied dutifully. But privately her thoughts wandered, only half paying attention as the woman inspected the neat piles of clothing and soft cotton diapers on her dresser, ready for use. She'd never seen the woman like this, there was vulnerability here, half hidden behind her haughty expression and proud words.

Perhaps it had always been there.

_Maybe-_

She shook her head, rousing herself from her stupor as her thoughts took a dangerous turn. She could almost hear the voice of her Lady Mother resounding in her head.  _Pay attention, Sansa!_

"He was mine once you know; I gave him to Joffrey when he was born. In fact, there is no one else I trust so completely with his welfare," the woman began, flicking a bit of dust off the edge of the cradle as the pup wriggled and squirmed. There was a smile flickering across the Queen's lips as he played with the corner of one of his furs, furtive and sharp like the point of a dagger sinking into the smoothness of unwilling flesh.

"He was younger then, but just as wild – just as graceless as he is now. He had his brother's strength, but, believe it or not, only  _half_  his temper. He'd already made a name for himself in the ring – at tourneys and squabbles with the hill tribes in the border lands," the Queen recalled, looking down at the pup as she talked, seeming to have almost forgotten she was there, voicing her thoughts as they came to her as the woman's gaze grew distant.

"He had a young man's awkwardness back then, all untested strength and righteous fury. And yet, he fought _three_  of Robert's King's Guard single-handedly for the honour. Such talent and ferocity couldn't be squandered on some lesser lord. And given his house's allegiance to mine, the path seemed well set," she continued.

"He'd never had much in the way of ambition, no grand designs in life other than finding some whore to fuck and a decent wine sink to tide him over till morning. As long as his basic needs were met, he was content - easy to please.  _A good loyal dog_."

She bristled, but self-preservation made her hold tongue. Sandor was no saint – that much she knew was true. But the way the woman so casually dismissed him, discussing him like she actually  _knew_  him, piqued her ire.  _He was so much more than that, yet they didn't even see it. They didn't understand how he was-_

"…And whatever his faults, he has always been that. His loyalty is unquestionable, just like a proper hound's should be," the Queen imparted, monologuing now as the bell that marked mid-day chimed – muted and heavy in the distance.

"There was a time, I believe, where he might have even loved Joffrey. Like a brother does to a brother or a distant uncle to a far removed cousin. …Until things changed," Cersei remarked, expression slipping as a frown took up residence where a fond smile had been only moments before.

The words  _'he changed' - 'Joffrey changed'_  hung in the air above both their heads like iron weights, silent and damning. Neither of them had the heart to voice them. Because she believed it, she could picture the King as a child, as a babe younger than the Hound was now, bright and heady with his mother's promise. He could have been a good man, but the innocence that had once been so present had somehow been stripped away, leaving something  _lesser_ , something  _harder_ in its wake.

_He'd forced his mother to watch him become a monster. In the eyes of the Seven, in the eyes of both the old gods and the new, she wondered if there was no greater sin – no greater plight than a mother's disappointment._

She wondered if, in time, she could find it in her to pity a lion.


	12. Chapter 12

"…Clegane never spoke of it of course, but a mother knows - that type of feeling is rare," Cersei murmured, giving no sign she'd noticed that her attention had wandered as the woman all but  _exhaled_ regret.

"Unconditional love is a powerful thing, my dear," the woman advised, surprising her when the conversation took yet another unexpected turn. "Which is why, given his recent behaviour, his protection of you in the throne room has more than a few people… _understandably_ curious," the Queen all but hummed, keeping her back to her, as if the matter was of little consequence, as she finally voiced the true reason behind her visit.

_Oh gods! The Queen suspected-_

Sandor gurgled, soft and flighty from the depths of his crib, providing an unsteady dissonance as something in the woman's tone gave her pause.

"So, you see why I must ask you Sansa, if he were so loyal, so solely minded on his task, why then would he risk himself, risk  _Joffrey,_ to save you?" the woman asked. She sucked in a breath, struggling not to choke as the full weight of the woman's words threatened to suffocate her.

If she had been the same girl who had ridden into King's Landing, bright and hopeful, head full of girlish fancies and high born dreams, she might not have recognized the Queen's words for what they were,  _an accusation._

She held back a frightened shiver, but only just. Forcing herself to look vaguely mystified as the woman continued.  _She mustn't give even so much as an inch. She was the only one who could protect him now. She had to be strong, fearless, she had to play her part – yet give away nothing._

"Clegane obeys  _Joffrey_. He obeys  _me_ ," the Queen affirmed. "He has protected my son since the cradle, fiercely, unequivocally and without hesitation. His house is bound to mine in ways you could scarcely comprehend - and yet, I've never  _once_  seen him do such a thing as he did yesterday."

"So, tell me the truth, my dear, do not lie. …An old dog does not learn new tricks overnight," Cersei purred, turning around to face her for the first time in an age, hands steepled, giving her leave to speak for the first time since she'd entered her chambers.

She practically tripped over herself trying to respond, the words slipping from her lips in a rush as panic got the better of her.

"Truly my lady, I do not know. I believed I had simply gotten in the way of his escape," she posed, letting the a unsteady pause hitch into silence before she added, "perhaps as a knight he felt the urge to-"

But the older woman didn't give her a chance to finish.

The Queen laughed. It was not a nice sound. "Still believe in fairy tales and gilded songs, sweetling? I would have thought you were smarter than that," she replied, tone light but undeniably vicious underneath the thin veil of laughter.

"No, the hound does only what he wills or as I or the King commands, so, the question remains. What have you been whispering in my hound's ears?" the older woman hissed, irritated now as she crooked a finger, bidding her to come closer.

The silence stretched, awkward and tense between heartbeats. Her mouth was dry, painfully so, but she didn't dare cross over to her dresser, not when it meant crossing paths with her. She wasn't that brave. Not today.

"Surely you've heard the rumours, my dear?" Cersei continued, voice almost salacious, as she sank down into the chair beside the window, smoothing her skirts with an elegant flick, eyes imperious and hard.

The woman seemed to be sizing her up, like a butcher to a cut of venison as she forced herself to look mortified, appearing appalled at the very idea as she stewed in childish silence. And whether she believed her or not, the Queen appeared to take the bait.

"In fact, since yesterday, Lord Varys has heard at least seven different theories about you and my son's dog. Secret meetings in the Godswood, unseemly happenings in the gardens and all manner of frightful things," the Queen imparted, leaning forward in her seat, shushing her when she made to reply.

"What am I to believe, my dear? All rumour has a measure of truth in it after all, isn't that what the Septas say?" She opened her mouth, but the woman's hand came up, silencing her. The action was dismissive, but severe.

"Tread carefully Sansa, not every ear is as forgiving as mine when it comes to such rumours. My son has the weight of the entire realm on his shoulders – and thus - is not as understanding as I," she levelled, expression grim, yet painted with fake concern, almost motherly as her eyes beseeched her to take care.

_It reminded her of a lioness stalking her prey from the long grass. Waiting for the right moment to strike._

Horror bubbled up in the back of her throat as the woman got to her feet. It took everything she had not to fall over herself apologising - to explain, to assure the woman that she  _hadn't_  - that she'd  _never-_

_Only she would._

She knew that well enough. Whatever was being rumoured, whatever it was that they'd supposedly said or done, she was  _sure_  she'd imagined worse.  _She'd already vowed that she'd have him. She already knew he felt something for her, what else was there to discuss?_

She  _was_  guilty. She just hadn't had the opportunity to commit the sin.

"Either way, I will be interested to hear his reasoning when he is restored," Cersei continued, pausing by the door as her eyes flicked from her to the cradle in quick succession.

"It is said that as women, we can never truly understand the thoughts and compunctions of men. Perhaps that holds especially true for a man such as the Hound – a level yet contradictory sort of man," she mused, tone dismissive as her red gown swirled prettily, looking more like one of her father's war cloaks than a proper dress – ripe with intimidation and promise.

"…But the King wants an explanation and so do I."

She nodded dumbly, lowering her eyes in something she hoped resembled the type of chasteness the Queen had been looking for in the first place.  _She'd come here for answers after all, why not give her some?_

Her door opened with an unsightly creak, noticing, out of the corner of her eye, the way the Queen's guardsmen tensed, practically preening as the woman spared them a passing glance, inspecting them critically before she turned to face her.

"Tend to your duty well, my dove. My son will want his dog returned to him as soon as this cursesome magic is at an end," Cersei counselled, leaving all other courtesies unsaid as she turned gracefully on her heel – slamming the door firmly behind her.

The echoes carried on far longer than she figured they had any right to as she slumped down on the edge of the bed, breathless. Her hands trembled, clasped tight, -  _too tight_ – in her lap, vainly trying to calm herself as the woman's words washed over her.

_Mother help her._

Her exhale was heavy in the air around her head, slipping from her lips like a living thing, like something that had weight,  _feeling_. She tried to push it away, to let it air out, ignored and unexamined.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe. Logically she knew that if the Queen had anything concrete – if she knew for sure that there was anything between them she would have already been thrown into the dungeons, Sandor as well – and probably worse - as soon as he was restored.

But despite that knowledge, the feeling remained – illusive and terrible - something that for the life of her, she just couldn't bring herself to name. Fearing that if she did, the moment she said it out loud, she'd be forced to admit that it was  _real_.

And, perhaps sensing it, Sandor remained silent, watching her over the edge of his crib as she fought to control her breathing, losing track of how long she'd been there as he stared at her with those serious, grey eyes.

And for the first time since the throne room, she could have  _sworn_  she could see  _the man_ staring back at her.


	13. Chapter 13

"What he did was very brave," Margaery remarked, one hand reaching out to skim across the blooms as they took a walk through the gardens, their arms linked companionably as they enjoyed the late summer afternoon.

It had been two days since the Queen had come to call, and in all honesty, she'd accepted her friend's invitation for an afternoon of companionship with relish. She'd been cooped up in her rooms for far too long.

She held Sandor high on her left, bracing him against her shoulder as the babe gummed happily on his fingers. He was swaddled in a yard of black cloth today, the material trimmed with yellow and silver edging. In fact, he looked as resplendent as any prince, looking about him curiously as he sucked on his fingers, content for the moment, to simply observe as a train of servants followed sedately in their wake.

"Yes," she offered, nodding habitually as they stopped to admire a stunning red-veined, High Garden rose. "Very brave," she murmured, recalling the warmth of him when he'd pulled her in, arms wrapping around her waist a mere moment before the blast had caught them.

She remembered how the hairs on the back of her neck had prickled, alive with sensation as his warm breath gusted down her nape, beard catching on the ties of her dress as bare skin met bare skin. It had been invigorating, _terrifying_ , close, and-

She was brought out of her thoughts with a jolt when she realized that the woman's words had been loaded. She cursed herself, realizing far too late that there had been an implication behind her friend's words, an assumption that had grown steadily into a suspicion – an  _epiphany_. Because there was a look on the older woman's face now, different, considering-

_Oh gods._

A shiver quivered down her spine as she tried to collect herself.

"Yes, his protection of the King was admirable," she hurried. "He moved so fast. He sacrificed himself so that the King was out of harm's way," she simpered, pouring on a level of fake sincerity so thick she swore she might actually choke on it.

Margaery smiled, the expression surprisingly genuine in its mirth as she twirled an auburn curl around her index finger. Nodding graciously as Lord Garres and his wife, Lady Urtha crossed their path.

She tried her best to ignore their stares, especially the mockery that lit up the back of their eyes as Sandor drooled across the shoulder of her gown. She arched a brow. Staring back coolly as the lady had the audacity to titter, leaning into her lord as if in confidence, as whatever she whispered caused a laugh – bold and callous – to filter through the air above their heads.

_Let them look. Let them report every word, every action back to their little spies. She would not be intimidated. The Hound feared no one. If he were restored, they wouldn't have had the courage to even look at her!_

"Yes, he did indeed," Margaery agreed, letting the silence linger until she was sure they were alone once more. "However, it was not his protection of the _King_  that I was referring to," she pointed out, undisguised interest flashing across her expression in the guise of a shared, girlish sort of solidarity that had been offered by the older woman from the start.

She opened her mouth to reply, but stopped herself when she realized how foolish such an admission would be. Even the most passing comment could be taken apart – it could be misunderstood, warped, and remade to suit the machinations of others. If she'd learned nothing else since her father's death, it was that trust – even for so small a thing – was not wisely given in King's Landing.

Margaery sent her an encouraging smile, distracted for a moment as Sandor squealed from his perch, pudgy fingers investigating the softness of a snarl of winter pearl as the dew-drop blossoms swayed in the light ocean breeze. And not for the first time she let herself wonder about her friend's true intentions.

If they were different people in a different place, she liked to imagine that her and Margaery could have been true friends. Like the friendships of her girlhood, they too might have traded their hopes and dreams by the firelight, braiding each other's hair and coveting the duties of their lady-mothers as they looked forward to the moment when they would be called on to meet their lord-husbands. Bringing honor to their house with an advantageous match and the siring of strong sons and daughters that would bear their likeness for many generations to come.

_But here?_

_Now?_

_She knew better._

_Gods, she was tired of this game!_  It was cutthroat and brutal, full of masks and facades. Where no one showed their true face or intentions, there was no place for innocence or morality. There was nothing good here, nothing pure or whole. It had been a lesson she'd learned at great expense, one that had cost her family a very high price.

She struggled for an answer.

"A soldier's instinct perhaps. I was so frightened I didn't realize until I was safely in my chambers that I had likely been in the way of his escape," she pointed out, pausing for a moment before inspiration struck. "King Joffrey was right to name me his caretaker; I am, after all, responsible."

"…Perhaps," the woman echoed, patting her arm soothingly, seeming to consider her reply closely before grinning – clearly ready to move on to other things.

"I have heard many tales of his prowess, both on  _and_ off the battlefield," the woman laughed, lingering on the word as if enjoying her own private joke as one of the servants trailing behind then darted forward with a tray of lemon cakes and a honey-drizzled sweet Margaery seemed to favor.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he simply wished to protect you. After all, you were Joffrey's betrothed. He has a particular sort of honor to him, I think, a warped sort of fairness that seems to rear its ungainly head whenever he deems the injured party worthy of his efforts. His defense of my dear brother at the Hand's Tourney being one such instance," Margaery offered, whispering the last bit like it was something scandalous as they linked arms.

A snatch of memory flickered in the back of her mind's eye - the bloodied body of Arya's friend, the butcher's boy - rose to the forefront. She shivered despite the warm, coastal air.  _Warped indeed._

But she forced herself to adopt a bemused expression, as if the thought had only just occurred to her. "I doubt Ser Clegane was thinking solely of my welfare."

"Do not talk yourself short, my dear. You are a gem and a lady by birth. Any man would be thrice a fool to deny you anything!" the woman declared, playfully wiggling her fingers at Sandor as the babe squealed, gumming the edge of the linen blanket she'd draped over the corner of her gown, mindful of his penchant for drooling on her best silks.

"I'm told that the King is already considering how best to reward him," Margaery mused, pressing a finger to her lips thoughtfully before she continued, "his most loyal servant…"

Outwardly she smiled, but internally, her lip curled. The emotion was uncharacteristically fierce, all rough edges and untempered harshness. It reminded her of Lady snarling at the shadows.

Joffrey would throw him a bone to gnaw on, no doubt. Some trifle or empty title for his bravery, something far less than he deserved. Something the Hound would have little care for. They didn't understand him. Not like she did.

"I have already arranged to have something made for him, something to express my gratitude. A new breast plate perhaps? I haven't decided," Margaery mused, trailing her fingers down a long-stemmed rose before she beckoned to one of her servants.

"I have heard that his war armor is in dire need of replacement, especially after the Blackwater. Perhaps I will pay a visit to the Blacksmith; the master there must surely recall his measurements. More wine, Sansa?"

She shook her head, mute, stomach churning at the thought of another – another woman no less – gifting the Hound with such a prize. Such a gift was one a father passed on to his sons or a wife arranged to be made for her husband. It was a wife's duty, after all, to see to her lord husband in all respects. It was inherent – implied even in one's wedding vows. The man places his cloak of protection across her shoulders and later, his bride presents  _him_ with one of her own. Usually it was some sort of attire, depending on his need and the lady's skill with a needle – assuring him in the same manner as his cloak assured her, that she would always consider his need before hers.

"My friend, whatever is the matter? You look very ill at ease!"

"Forgive me," she managed, momentarily floundering as Sandor gazed up at her, grey eyes unfathomably serious as his lower lip jutted out in a clear pout.

_Did he know? Did he sense the thin ice she was treading upon? Did he know her thoughts? And if he did, how much did he understand? Seven help her!_

"Sand- … _Sir Clegane_  spent much of last night restless. He would not settle. I fear I hardly slept at all," she explained, walking a delicate line between a falsehood and the truth as the babe in question babbled softly to himself.

"There is nothing to forgive," Margaery assured, warm smile back in place. "I understand completely."

But rather than being assured, her nerves were just rattled enough to press her ruse even further, feigning exhaustion as she paused, turning to her friend with a tired expression she certainly didn't have to fake.

"Would you like to hold him?" she blurted, thrusting the pup up by the arms, desperate for a distraction, for something -  _anything_ , lest Margaery even  _begin_ to suspect.

And much like she'd hoped, the older woman started. "Me?" she echoed, as if she hadn't even considered it. Still, she took the babe all the same as Sandor hiccuped, surprised at the sudden shift in gravity.

The woman took him carefully, handling him as if he were more delicate than spun glass, cradling him gently. "I'm afraid I am woefully unprepared when it comes to such things, my lady mother passed not long after my brother's second name day. It seems a lifetime since Loras was this small," Margaery remarked, tapping the brooding child's nose lightly until her actions elicited a happy giggle.

She hurried to relate, pretending to take the woman into her confidence as she hinted that the duty was wearing on her. Speaking in hushed tones until the woman's expression softened into something akin to understanding.

I suppose it is good practice, Margaery counselled, sitting them down on the nearest bench, nodding to one of the servants who quickly rushed forward with a thick cotton blanket. The page folded it at their feet with a nervous flick, smoothing it out so that Sandor might have a chance to roam.

"I yearn for the day I can bear my lord husband such a healthy, ox of a son," the woman hummed, testing the cushion of the blanket with the arch of her heel before thumbing his check affectionately. Not even seeming to notice when a little hand curled around the edge of her fine green gown, crushing the velvet trim with a surprisingly strong grip.

"He was cute as a pup, that I will grant him," Margaery beamed, setting him down on the blanket with the air of a woman whose thoughts were firmly in the future. She shuddered at the implication, hoping that if the gods did grant Joffrey an heir, the child would take after its mother.

_Gods be good Joffrey would not live long enough to poison any pup – let alone his own._

"Such serious eyes," the woman teased, smiling wide enough for the both of them as Sandor squirmed around on his front, fisting the blanket with tiny, claw-like grasps. His bright eyes looked around him eagerly as the sights and smells of summer filtered through the warm summer air.

She didn't think it a coincidence that now, more than ever, she missed the winter snows of home.


	14. Chapter 14

The days continued on this way -  _dragging_. She was called in front of the King more than once, Sandor in tow. Forced to stand witness to whatever whims his majesty was entertaining that day. Indeed, he seemed determined to take out his foul humor on her. Because in front of an audience or not, time and time again he sent for her. Berating her for foolishness, for her family's failures, for his enemy's machinations,  _everything_.

She braced herself for his cruelty every time she received a summons. Margaery endeavored to be there when she could, to soften the brunt of the King's anger. They'd realized long before the woman in red and her attempt on the King's life that Joffrey seemed unwilling to lay into her too harshly when his intended was present. But the woman couldn't be there every time, so, she did what she always did, she persevered.

But in the end it was often Sandor that saved her, his angry screeches and inability to remain still annoyed the King to no end - often leading him to send them away early almost every time. It only took her a few days to realize that the babe seemed to be doing it on purpose. With his foul mood and thick tears coasting to a stop the moment they were out of earshot of the throne room. The camaraderie was enough to make her giggle, knowing that even now he was doing his best to help her - trying in his own way.

She rewarded him with a whirl around the room when they were safely inside her chambers, laughing aloud for the sheer joy of it as Sandor squealed – pudgy legs flying –  _dancing_.

She tickled her fingers across his belly, delighting in the sudden squirm and string of gibberish that resulted as they collapsed on the bed. His dark eyes tracked her, focusing as she leaned down, letting him capture a few of her curls as he kicked his legs in triumph.

She smiled, thoughtlessly tugging on the corners of his shift to reveal a soft belly. There was a hint of the man she knew there, a certain broad-chestedness that signaled how a child might finally grow into their skin. With Bran it had been obvious, he'd been small and narrow from the moment he'd been born into this world, Rickon had been the same – perhaps more compact – more of their father's build in him than their lady-mother's. Only with Sandor she didn't have to wonder.

In truth, he was more  _bull_ than hound, all wide shoulders and a deep barrel chest that any of her brothers would have envied. He'd towered above even her father on the journey to King's Landing and had held his own against The Mountain, his own flesh and blood, at the Hand's Tourney.

The babe bounced across the mattress, grasping the linens tightly as he pulled himself along – inching forward like a fat little caterpillar as he explored the surface of the bed with an inquisitive eye.

She remembered when Bran had been small – he'd been such a good natured thing, not colicky and restless like Arya. She'd blown raspberries across his belly, teasing them both to tears as the entire keep echoed with their laughter.

She caught herself in mid-action as Sandor stilled. She bit her lip, watching the babe watch  _her_  as tiny fingers untangled themselves from the coverlet and reached for her.

_No._

The hound was not to be teased. Especially not like this.

* * *

She was walking along the inner docks with Shae the following afternoon when she noticed Lord Varys and Lord Baelish approaching. She allowed the woman to direct her towards a stone bench, leading her with a cautious hand, feigning as though they had not noticed the two men as Shae leaned down, whispering under the guise of straightening Sandor's blanket, who slept on, oblivious.

"They've been shadowing us for the past half-hour, my lady," Shae murmured, practiced hands tucking and fiddling around the edge of the blanket, looking as busy as Arya with an embroidery needle whenever their Septa came to check on their progress.

"I believe they wish to speak with you in private – without the risk of being overheard."

She nodded, wordless, striking up a conversation about the latest rumor – something about a tourney set for the following spring as the soft rasp of leather soles stole across the narrow, pebble-strewn path.  _Did they think they were being clever, seeking her out? Or had their spies done that for him? What business did they have with her that could not be answered by their precious informants?_

"Lady Sansa," Lord Baelish greeted, gifting her with a half bow that Lord Varys mirrored, a fraction of an inch lower. The subtle attempt to curry her favor did not go unnoticed. A year ago she might have fallen for it, taking it as her due as the daughter of a Lord – as the daughter of the Hand of the King – but now?

_Now she was just jaded enough to know better._

She was vaguely aware of an old woman on the other side of the dock – browned by a lifetime of labor, abandoning the basket she was weaving. She watched out of the corner of her eye as the woman secured her head-scarf and crossed towards a gaggle of street urchins. A child darted forth, leaning down from an overhang as the woman whispered hurriedly. The child was gone in less time than it took for the others to blink. No doubt to whisper all manners of things into his master's ear.

She arched a brow when the woman retook her seat along the sea wall, realizing quite suddenly that the two men would have no need of spies whilst speaking with her. The implication was clear. It was not just Lord Baelish and Lord Varys who were watching – but the Queen as well.

"Good afternoon, my lords," she returned, polite and syrupy to a fault as Sandor snuffled, fussing until she tucked him more firmly into the curve of her arm, soothing him back to sleep.

"We wished to offer our congratulations," Lord Baelish began, gaze straying to Sandor's curly head as a trickle of drool rolled down from the corner of his lips – sleep-slack and flushed in the warm ocean breeze. "We've heard from the Queen that you've been handling your charge admirably."

She inclined her head, the picture of womanly-deference as she daubed a handkerchief across the babe's chin, "I am pleased the Queen thinks so highly of me. Her aid during this time had been invaluable."

"And how _is_  Sir Clegane?" Lord Varys posed, bald head wrinkling as he bent his knees to better see the slumbering child. It was a stiff gesture that looked more like a shallow bow, reminding her of the horses hobbled in her father's stables.  _Such an odd man!_

Shae was a solid presence at her back when she looked up, forcing a smile as she spoke. "He fairs well my lords, I am told he acts as any child of the same age. He grows more and more active and continues to have a good appetite," she replied, hefting the babe a little higher in her arms as he shifted, fingers tangling with the sleeve of her gown as he curled into her chest.

"Then it is true? There has been no hint of his former self?" Lord Baelish inquired, the mocking bird at his throat seeming to pipe with silent laughter – flashing in the high summer sun.

"He acts with a child's mind, my lord," she affirmed, believing it prudent not to go into detail or voice what she suspected. For now, more than ever, she was convinced it was not that simple. She'd seen too many hints of the man he'd been – there was an awareness in the back of his gaze sometimes – a heady, unnatural intelligence that shone through in the quiet moments.

"Fascinating," the man returned, looking thoughtful until Lord Varys cleared his throat.

"If I'm not mistaken, our would-be sorceress  _did_  say, 'mirror in body what you are in mind'," Varys snipped, "it seems apparent, given the power of the spell, that the mind would be affected as well. Indeed the prisoner admitted as much during questioning – under considerable duress, of course."

"But, like you said, blood magic is as specific to the victim as it is to the maker, is it not?" Lord Baelish answered, posing his hands behind his back with a proud air. "It stands to reason, since the spell was not made for Sir Clegane, that it might not work on him in the same manner as it was destined to work on our King."

"Granted," Lord Varys allowed, tone edging towards irritated as the other man huffed impatiently, "but blood magic follows a very specific set of rules. It is akin to playing with the elements. You can't expect it to-"

She shuddered when she considered just how they might have gotten that information.  _Under duress? She didn't like the sound of that._

They continued speaking –  _squabbling_  - much like she wasn't there, and frankly, she was glad for the reprieve. A gull screeched overhead, raucous and loud as she considered the matter herself. She'd heard nothing about the crone since she'd been dragged to the dungeons, perhaps-

"What is troubling you, child?" Lord Varys inquired, expression patently bland save for the curious gleam in his eye. ' _Spider, spider… How many flies have been caught in your webs today?'_ she wondered.

"I am concerned about the woman in red, my lord," she replied, grateful that she didn't have to lie – at least not completely. Her lower lip trembled convincingly, letting the two men believe what they wished as she began weaving a web of her own to learn more.

"…If she should get free and make another attempt on the King's life… I wonder, with Ser Clegane unable to protect him, if the King might be in danger…" she added, trailing off with a worried frown as the two men exchanged a look above her head.

"I am surprised you have not been informed, my lady, but the woman in question – no one quite knows her name – met her end two nights ago, sometime during the night," Lord Baelish hummed, rocking back on his heels with a particularly satisfied air.

"It's a terrible business my dear, but no need to trouble yourself over it. You are quite safe, as is the King and yes, even your young charge – for however long he might remain that way," Varys simpered.

"I-I see. Was it sudden?" she asked, choosing her words carefully, attempting to inject nothing more than idle curiosity into her tone.

"Blood magic exacts a brutal price, my lady," Lord Varys replied, as if that somehow explained everything. "She likely wasn't long for this world when she entered the city gates, let alone the throne room. Her demise, while regrettable, was but a matter of time."

She paused at this, considering. The woman had been old, unnaturally old, but somehow she doubted it'd been simply age that'd led to the woman's death. Her strength had been clear when she'd struggled with the guards and according to Shae, the woman's meals had always been returned, eaten to the last crumb.

_The woman's death was simply convenient. After all, what use was she after they'd gotten all the information they could from her? Especially to someone like Joffrey? What use was anyone?_

"I understand," she finally replied. "I grieve for the turn her life must have taken to lead her to such darkness. I will be sure to pray to the Mother for her soul's journey and for the continued safety of King Joffrey," holding Sandor firmly to her chest, forcing a bemused expression as Shae bobbled out a bow behind her.

Lord Varys's smile reminded her of a desert-cat toying with its meal before eating it.

And while she didn't quite manage to meet Lord Baelish's, she didn't have to see to know what she'd find there. His gaze had grown far too hungry of late.

She shivered.

* * *

"It  _is_  a blessing that he seems to have no memory of what happened, my lady," Shae commented later that evening, brushing her hair in the same, rough-shod way she'd gradually had to get used too since the woman had come into her service. She enjoyed the woman's company far too much to complain.

"Such a pleasant little thing," the woman hummed, using her fingers to work out a tangle, staring off into the shadows of the room as if considering something before smiling - looking over to the babe in question.

She stared at him uncertainly as the younger Clegane blew spit bubbles from his cradle. Indeed Sandor certainly seemed every bit the babe he was, waving his chubby little arms in the air, eager for attention as Shae cooed good naturedly, preparing her chambers for the evening.

It hadn't been the first time she'd considered it. If beneath those soft, grey eyes a man remained trapped underneath. Was he aware? Did he know what'd happened to him? Did he know her face? Or had the spell truly affected him in mind as well as body? She'd seen evidence of both, more than once. There would be a heady intelligence, a mature sort of awareness in his eyes one moment, only to have him dissolve into giggling or screaming in the next.

Honestly, she didn't know what to think.

She waited until Shae had gone to fetch her supper before she rose from her seat. Her skirts swirled as she crossed the room, delighting in the chill of the flagstones as she left her shoes forgotten behind her.

She took in his serious face as she leaned over the cradle. He was a pudgy mess of sleep-flattened curls, and frown lines. She couldn't help but laugh when he looked up at her with curious eyes and a spit-slicked chin, completely off-setting his taciturn expression - a mockery of his former snarl.

_Mother help her! And to think he used to frighten her so!_

The first time she'd laid eyes on him, she'd been petrified. His stature, manner, voice, appearance, she'd shied away from him. Even after he'd come to her aid that afternoon with Lord Payne, she'd avoided him whenever possible, uncertain of what to make of his brash manner and conflicting temper. It felt so shallow and so very long ago that her cheeks heated at the mere memory.

"Not so fearsome now, are you?" she commented archly, watching as he blinked sleepily, one pudgy fist waving lazily through the air until she obliged and allowed him to capture her finger. This seemed to satisfy him because he yawned once, then twice before his eyes drooped closed.

_Gods be good he wouldn't remember!_

She watched for the next handful of hours as the babe slept, keeping count of his small little breaths and the softness that gradually overtook the perpetual frown as dreams ushered in.

_Perhaps this would be the night? Perhaps the hold of the spell would finally lessen and he would return to his true form? She prayed to the Mother to give her the courage to persevere. Perhaps they would even have time, time to clear the air and finally speak of the feelings that lay between them. If only they could be granted such a boon!_

"Whenever you're ready, my lord…" she murmured, blinking sleepily at the flames until she followed him.

* * *

When Shae came in halfway through the night to stoke the fire, she found the two of them slumped in the chair beside the hearth. She smiled, shaking her head as she eased off the young woman's stockings. Her lady had been exhausted, fast asleep with the babe cradled in her arms, hair still pinned high and in her dress from dinner.

It seemed a testament to Sansa's state when she barely protested as her maid helped her into her bedclothes, tucking her under the covers with a soothing hum, taking no quarter when the lady fussed about feeding schedules and diapers.

She would look after the Hound for the night. Her lady needed the rest.


	15. Chapter 15

She knew it wasn't proper for a lady to refer to a man who was not her husband by his given name. Her septa and lady-mother had been quite clear on the subject. And as the daughter of a Lord, such titles were all but second nature to her.

But in the safety of her own mind, she couldn't help but indulge. She'd always been so careful, tripping over his titles again and again whenever they spoke – always singing so sweetly. Not knowing that such niceties were not only lost on him, but actively scorned.

He had refused the trappings of his brother and father before him.

She hadn't known any man to do such a thing.

Indeed, his hatred of the order only increased after Joffrey forced the issue, bestowing him the honor almost immediately after his coronation. She'd heard later, through some gossip overheard down in the gardens, that the Hound had left the Great Hall in a foul temper, not even stopping to shuck his armor as he saddled Stranger and dove head first into the most vile, filth-encrusted wine-sink in Fleabottom and drank until sunup the next day.

She'd once seen him drive his mailed fist clear through a guard's breastplate for calling him 'ser' after training a batch of new recruits bound for duty in the inner palace. Indeed, he'd snapped at her more than once for the same slight.

 _He was no Ser_.

Even after his unwanted knighthood, she'd struggled to find some sort of balance, something that was neither of those titles but more respectful than how Joffrey made him heel. She didn't know how, but somehow Joffrey had made even the sigil of the man's house into a slur – his loyal dog.

_The King's hound._

_Oh, how it angered her!_

But she'd never found it. She always floundered between 'ser' and 'my lord' – hiding behind her shallow curtsies and a hesitant glance. Unspeakably grateful for the times that they said nothing at all, content to walk in each other's company, soaking in the silence. He seemed to understand, sometimes, and did not speak to her too harshly when her education overtook that of good sense.

Still, she couldn't help but long for the love and familiarity her parents had shared. Her mother had called their father by his name – using a familiar, shortened version that never failed to capture his attentions. And he had done the same. It might not have been a match made for love when they'd first married, but love had certainly grown in its stead.

_Sandor._

It was a noble sort of name. Something that rolled off the tongue in much the same way as his rough-shot brogue, voice deep and rich in a way she'd never heard equaled.

Such a name _deserved_  to be uttered. To be voiced on worthy lips much in the same way that old wounds deserved to be soothed –  _healed._

And Mother help her, but she wished for that voice to be  _hers_.

* * *

"Sandor…" she tested, hovering determinedly over his cradle the following morning. She licked her lips, embracing the thrill that came with saying it out loud. Excitement surged high in her breast as the babe stilled. The feeling trembled down her limbs as she marveled on her own daring.

Dark eyes fixed on her, and for a moment she imagined he understood her.  _What a double-edged sword that would be!_

He cocked his head, resplendent in a shift of black and yellow silk, sable curls crushed against his blankets as he let loose a string of meaningless sounds – heavy with vowels and high in pitch as his hands speared up, little fists opening and closing as he demanded to be held.

She smiled, scooping him up easily despite his wriggling, well used to his preferences and the curves of his stubby little limbs as she held him aloft.

"I could love you," she decided, surprising herself when she said it out loud, pacing the flagstones as she tucked him against the curve of her shoulder.

"Perhaps I do now, though I have sung that song before," she mused, finding a strange sort of peace in putting her thoughts to voice, it was almost cathartic – in a strange sort of way. Giving voice to thoughts she'd long held back.

"I do know I don't wish to be without you. No matter where, no matter in what fashion, if we could ever flee this place. Whether we go north or south, or across the Narrow Sea, I know I do not want to be parted from your side. And perhaps  _that_  is the difference," she admitted, gaining courage when Sandor simply stared up at her, expression serious but untroubled.

_Perhaps it was that difference that made it true._

She'd arrived at King's Landing overflowing with childish dreams. Fanciful musings of Knights and high ladies, of long walks arm in arm with her intended and a long, drawn out courting ripe with intimate moments and the sharing of two hearts soon to become one. She'd held on doggedly to such allusions long after she should have, determined to think the best of all and not fall into the same vat of bitterness that everyone in King's Landing seemed to deem as normal. She'd been sure that if she kept to her lessons, and did as she was bid, she would have her happy ending.

After all, that was what happened in the stories, wasn't it?

But Joffrey had shattered them the day he'd taken father's head.  _The day he'd lied._  And since that moment in the city-square, her dreams had been dark – turning to terrors that gripped her long into the night, whispering words like vengeance and betrayal as she tried to find a balance between who she was and who she was in danger of becoming.

The meaning behind the dreams she once coveted had long since faded out, replaced by a face kissed by fire, by broad shoulders and strong arms that had wrapped around her – saving her in more ways than one.

"You could make me happy, I think. You  _do_  make me happy," she corrected, "you make me feel safe. _Cherished_. I can be myself in your presence. You do not see me like they do, as a rook to be pawned to the highest bidder or a chess piece that is theirs to place and scheme."

"You have always been honest with me. You have never lied to spare my feelings and try as you might, despite what you might think, despite how you might try and hide it, you  _are_ honorable. You are good –  _human_  – _real_. And I am honored that you have allowed me that much."

_Trust was a luxury she could ill afford. But with Sandor, it was different._

_It had always been different._

"You saved me, more than once. You tried to hide it, to mask your intentions behind loyalty and duty. But I see it all clearly now. Even in your rage, your brashness, you strove to teach me how to survive here. They were lessons, rules,  _realities_  you tried to teach me in your own way."

"But you mis-stepped, didn't you?" she added, buoyed by the thought as it rose like a flame in her throat, scalding her with the truth of it as her words strengthened and Sandor stilled in her arms, gaze fixed on her as she paused by her chest. The same one that held his white cloak.

She let her fingers linger on the smooth polish. She'd hidden it there, in the secret compartment her lady mother had shown her, a hiding place for her most treasured baubles. But that day, when she'd returned to her rooms and dismissed her servants, she'd upended it, sending her jewels and broaches scattering in all directions as she stowed the cloak carefully inside. The knowledge it was there, never far from her side, had been a great comfort to her in the months that had followed.

"You thought your crudeness, your brashness, your – hurts would mask your true intentions. You may be able to fool them, Ser. But you have long since failed to fool me. I  _see_  you," she stated, head high and tone firm as one of Sandor's fingers popped out of his mouth, eyes rapt on her face

"I care for you, my lord," she continued, voice almost a whisper now, gaze distant as she looked off in the direction of the gardens, ignoring the splendor and vibrancy for some far off point she knew instinctively as home – as  _Winterfell._

"I have been watching you for a long time Ser, and perhaps it is my imagination, but I believe you feel the same. I could make you happy," she replied fiercely. "I could be a good wife to you, a companion."

"I know it and yet, I must marry another," she sighed, sinking down into her chair and nuzzling against his cheek as a small hand petted against her sleeve, as if trying to give her comfort even now as his dark eyes shivered off into a dozen different shades of somber.

"Tyrion is not a bad sort of man," she admitted, hushing the words down to the barest of whispers as she smoothed a finger down the curve of the babe's chin, "in fact he has been kind to me. But I do not love him. And I don't think I could ever learn to. But you-"

She broke off, startled when a quiet knock echoed through her chambers.

She sighed as Sandor's expression wrinkled - an irritated frown already on the rise as his lower lip began pouting dangerously. There was no such thing as peace in King's Landing, only the solace of a temporary quiet, and even that was rare.

You'd think she'd be used to it by now.


	16. Chapter 16

"I have said it before, Margaery," she assured, clasping the woman's free arm in hers and balancing Sandor in the other. "I want nothing more than to see you happy."

They had taken to the gardens again, this time without the train of servants. For, as it turned out, the interruption had been a welcome one. She'd taken one look at her friend, the woman's normally placid expression blown wide with an emotion she couldn't quite identify and had dismissed her servants until the afternoon meal.

Margaery had clearly been surprised by the news, caught off guard enough to seek her out for comfort and council. And in all honestly, she couldn't find it in her to deny her friend anything. It seemed as though in the wake of the attack, the Small Council had deemed it wise for the Royal Wedding to occur sooner rather than later. It was an effort that would solidify the two houses – forming a unified front in the face of any possible threat that King's Landing might face in the near future. It was smart, if not altogether sudden.

"I know it's silly of me, but I am anxious that there be no hard feelings between us. I realize your feelings for my husband-to-be are…complex. But the position of Queen of all? Surely you might feel as though I have taken-"

She sighed, gently untangling Sandor's fist from a wayward curl, ignoring the indignant squawk as she plucked a bloom, a drooping winter-bell from the nearest plot of dirt and handed it to him.

"My feelings on the matter are unchanged; there was a time that I wished for such for such a thing. For a life taken straight from the pages of some grand tale of love and laughter. For a knight – a king to find worth in me – to court me and keep me at his side always," she answered, pausing for a moment as she watched Sandor happily shred the bloom. Peeling the petals off one by one until an uneven stream of white marked their trail - spanning out behind them as if the pup was somehow marking his territory.

Margaery paused, looking back the way they'd come, expression clouded.  _Listless_.

"Put your mind at ease, my friend. I don't want it – if I ever did. Truly," she replied sincerely. "And I certainly don't begrudge you your happiness. You will be a marvelous queen," mildly surprised when she realized she meant every word.

The woman's smile was small, but genuine as she untangled their arms and reached for the babe, relieving her of her burden as Sandor gummed at the stem of the flower with idle interest.

"I must admit I thought we'd have more time. More time to court and become acquainted. I had known Renley for many years before I pledged myself to him and his campaign. He and Loras had long been close friends," Margaery mused, "I understood him. His wants, his desires…"

"There is so much a woman can do to temper a man after all," her friend continued, "Especially one so young. There is potential there, potential for a better mould. I am sure of it."

She nodded, understanding the meaning behind the woman's words – as carefully chosen and cautious as they were. Margaery had seen the king's true face, the one she had warned her about that day in the tent with her Lady-grandmother. And for all her friend's guiles and charms, it frightened her.

_And it should._

Joffrey enjoyed cruelty for cruelty's sake alone. There was no cure for that, nothing in a maester's kit to sooth such a terrible ill. Nothing save for a quick death and a time of mourning for the person they could have been, if not for the darkness.

"I have never seen the King treat another with as much… _delicacy_  as he does you – save for perhaps his mother," she replied honestly, breathing in the smell of the afternoon blooms as a light wind filtered through the garden. "You must be doing  _something_  right. Pleasing him in some way I never could."

"Men are simple, my dear. When you have them figured out, everything else falls into place. I have appealed to his baser nature," Margaery replied, pursing her lips thoughtfully as Sandor crushed what was left of the bloom in his grubby little paw. "And gained much, I think, in his regard. But I have yet to fully understand that nature – what drives him. I'm unused to being so unprepared."

She leveled Sandor with an assessing look as her friend rearranged the pup against her hip, feigning concern as she wiped at a bit of drool with the corner of his swaddling blanket.

 _Simple? She'd never met a man who'd more vexed her and enthralled her in turn! Figure out the Hound?_ She snorted.  _She might as well pray to the Stranger for safe keeping at her own wedding! She had no doubt that the day she figured out Sandor Clegane would be the same the Stranger came to claim her for his own._

"Ah well, enough quivering. In fact, I am well pleased! We are sisters now in terms of circumstance. Both of us bound for marriage to the same great family – quick to the alter in the arm of a lion," Margaery hummed, patting her gently, expression silting mirthfully as Sandor reached for another bloom – a sun-pearl from the Isles of Dorne as they continued their stroll.

"When do you think your wedding will be?" she asked, curious as Sandor eyed one of the woman's dangling earrings with a speculative gaze.

"I suppose it depends on when Ser Clegane decides to grace us with his adult presence. As I understand it, the King and the Small Council intend both to be in quick succession. Perhaps you will marry before I? At this point both parties are uncertain," Margaery commented, tilting her head safely out of reach as the babe made a grab for the earring in question.

"Magic is so unpredictable. Why, he could return to his full form right at this very moment, or in a week's time!" The woman exclaimed, "It's all rather vexing really. I know the King is getting very-"

Her expression fell, remembering the fate in store for her after her task was complete. Sandor's irritated huff was the only sound that broke the silence.

Something of it must have shown on her face because the woman stopped. Bouncing Sandor on her hip as the babe gurgled unhappily, keen eyes watching her face despite Margaery's attempts to distract him. And even then, some part of her seized on it. It was almost as if the pup knew, understanding her distress.

"Oh come now, Sansa," Margaery tutted, tone chiding but expression all too knowing. "You could do much worse than Tyrion Lannister, you know. And not simply due to your situation."

She opened her mouth; a rejoinder –  _a rebuttal_  - ready to be uttered before the woman waved it away, asking for her silence with the gesture as she simmered quietly. It wasn't a sulk, but even she had to admit it was a near thing.

"You may not believe this, my dear, but your choice of husband is actually remarkably fortunate. He is a lion to be sure, but a kind one I think, as kind as he can be," the woman mused, gifting her with an open smile, teasing but serious as intrigue danced in the back of her expression.

"Tyrion – by all accounts - grew up in life of privilege. He is a Lannister. But unlike his siblings, from a young age he has tasted the bitterness that plagued the circumstances of his birth. He is deemed by many to be a lesser man. Even by the machination of his father he is viewed as disposable – less valuable. Yet, he has not let that cripple him. Instead it is a part of who he is. He has made himself stronger for it, playing on his strengths rather than dwelling on his weaknesses," Margaery declared, nodding to herself as she paused, considering.

"And for what he lacks in stature, he makes up with cunning and guile, to be sure, his victory on the Black Water for example. He ensured the King would come out victorious and took to the battle in the King's stead to hearten the men. That is no small a feat, I think," her friend added, grinning at her play of words as she couldn't help but mirror the gesture.

Sandor giggled quietly, as if in agreement. The sound partially muffled in the curls of Margaery's hair as the pup turned his attention towards one of the woman's jeweled hairpins.

She shook herself, unable to temper down a laugh as Margaery tried to save her carefully coiffed curls from harm.  _Little menace!_   _Were all children so tenacious? Or was this part of the Hound shining through?_

It was only when they neared the inner courtyard, distantly hearing the hushed voices of other courtiers who'd gathered there that the woman handed him back. Sandor nearly wriggled right out of the woman's grip in his excitement to be reunited.

"He favors you anyway."

" _One can only hope,"_  she thought silently, exhaling in relief as their conversation turned to other matters.

* * *

She was running.

_Panting._

Fear gripped her, basic and strong as the suffocating closeness of the trees flew past her. She was in the forest – the wild lands on the borders of Winterfell. Her hair whipped out, billowing and whirling like the main sail of a river-ship as she leapt over a fallen tree.

She knew this place.

She breathed in, a huffing, long-muzzled sound as she scented the air.

_Home._

_This was her territory._

The ground was harsh underneath her hands, the pads of a dire-wolf flickering to vulnerable human flesh from one moment to the next. Her perspective was skewed, off, switching from bounding on all fours to scrabbling on two legs interchangeably.

She reared, putting on another impossible burst of speed as a heavy body landed in the dirt behind her, kicking up a spray of undergrowth as her hackles rose.

_A chase!_

_She was being hunted!_

_Flee._

She could smell him, her hunter. It was a son of man -  _no_ , a mighty hound. His scent was conflicted, almost as if he was changing from one form to the other just as she was - caught between that of a woman and a wolf.

_Close now._

_Run._

_Leap._

_Duck._

_Skid._

_Run!_

Loose soil flew behind her, kicked up by a scrabbling claw that turned into a delicate human heel before it could hit the ground again. She winced as the undergrowth dug into her skin. She memorized the sting of every scrape, every cut, sliver and bruise. It would make her victory all the sweeter.

Close behind her, the hound bayed.

She raised her head, warbling out an unsteady howl as she splashed through a stream bed. The shock of the winter water was almost enough to take her breath away, but it gained her a few precious seconds when the hound hesitated. Ice water beaded down her skin, making her aware of her nakedness as she shook out her fur coat – skin dulcet pale in the moonlight.

But the cry went unanswered.

_She was alone._

If she hadn't been so panicked – so busy running for her life – the realization would have made her still. Where was her pack? Her litter-mates? She couldn't smell them, she couldn't-

She stumbled, pelting around a wide-spread oak as the hound snapped at her heels, distracted by a sudden, heady scent. It was different -  _sharp_. It was not pack.  _It was better_.

_Mate._

The smell rose around her, cut with the bitter edge of sweat and crushed green. And despite the fact that she kept on running, ripping up her delicate human hands at every other push, it immediately it made her wolf heel.

_She knew him._

_Desired him._

_He was hers._

_She was his._

A breathy whine elicited at the admission, rising up to meet his vicious snarl as blunt human teeth dug into her nape – her delicate throat suddenly bared, nude in place of the fur that had stood in its stead only seconds before. She broke away, snapping at his muzzle as she circled him, meeting his angry bark with a growl of her own - challenging.

The hound's hackles were up, fur coat a stark, charcoal black that seemed to swallow the moonlight as he stalked her from the shadows. He was unlike any dog she'd ever seen, burly and massive, more bear than mastiff as the scent of him – heady and dank rose in the midnight still.

"Pretty bird," the hound snapped, human lips twisting in a mockery of a smile. But his sharp teeth remained bared, daring her to circle close, waiting for any hint of a weakness before he made to strike. "…Would you like to come out and play?"

_He was hers._

_And she was his._

_But still, they would run._

They would run until he caught her, until he snatched her up in his jaws and claimed her as his own. Because _that_  was the game.  _That_ was the chase.  _That_ was how wild things sorted out their differences in the quick and dark.

After all, a man was simply an animal that knew the difference, right?


	17. Chapter 17

She woke with jerk and a startled cry, chest heaving as the remnants of her dream chased her firmly into consciousness. She kicked free of her sheets, one hand pressing light on her throat as her breasts strained against the taut fabric of her sleeping shift. She'd grown again – she would need to remind Shae to speak to the royal seamstress in the morrow.

She blinked into the near dark, breathing hard. A glance at the floor beside the bed told her Sandor had slept right through her foolishness _. Small mercies._  Her fingers shook as she lit the taper at her bedside, glancing down at the sleeping babe as the sound of his soft, snuffling breaths rose and fell in the midnight hush.

She expelled a long, pent up breath as the candle caught, settling back into her pillows with a sigh as she turned the images over and over in her mind.  _What a queer thing to dream!_

She closed her eyes, feeling as it was her due to let her mind wander. He'd been chasing her, running her down like the hound they all claimed him to be. But she knew better, the match had been worthy –  _just._ And as damning as it'd sounded, she'd been more than receptive.

_It was only a matter of time now, and they both knew it. They were on the cusp of something. What that something was, she didn't know. All she knew for certain was that she'd risk everything just for a taste of it._

She shivered as she recalled the feeling of his teeth grazing across her neck – a sensation made light with teasing licks and the harsh tang of sharp canines ghosting across the apex where her neck met with her shoulder.

He'd growled then, a few whispers shy of breaking skin, somewhere between rage and rut as he grabbed her fiercely, possessive and brash. Her cheeks heated at the mere memory. And yet, even now, straying dangerously into less than savory territory, she couldn't bring herself to defer to the lectures of her Sepsa and Lady-mother.

_There was something about him that made her feel bold. Alive!_

She kept her eyes closed, biting her lip as one of her hands trailed down her skin, stroking over the curve of her breast, the arch of her hip, wondering what Sandor might do in her place.

 _Would he be gentle?_  She shook her head, answering her own question.  _No. He wouldn't._  Not in any of the ways she would be expecting at least. He was only likely to be malleable, open to suggestion, carefully attuning his actions to her own desires until they'd reach some sort of accord.

He'd have her.  _Use her_. Worship her. And strangely, that reality did not distress her. Much the opposite in fact, because unlike seemingly anyone else in this wretched kingdom, he would only hold her all the tighter afterwards.

She squirmed across the sheets, bare toes gliding across the fabric like a barn-cat kneading through a pile of wool. She ignored the strangled hum of pleasure when her hand dipped downwards, bunching the thin fabric of her shift as her knuckles pressed, ever so gently, against her woman's center.

She rubbed idly, rhythmic and slow.

_A dog wouldn't lie to you._

_And Sandor never had._

_But he was more than the hound. Even if he didn't see it himself._

She stroked herself in earnest now, trying to remember her dream. The cadence of his acrid breaths, the rumble of a growl rattling in the depths of his chest, she could picture it all so clearly. Her hips jumped, small clothes growing damp with her excitement as she considered the moment in all its intricacies.

Would he take her first? Or would he let her in? Would he let her sate her curiosity on his body first? Would he let her explore? To learn what he liked best? To see the body that existed underneath the armor? Or would he have her roughly, only letting her do as she willed in the afterglow?

Margaery had often told her that was when men were the most agreeable, in the moments after they'd peaked, even the most paranoid and suspicious of men turned into creamed honey in their lover's hands. Would the hound be the same? Would he let her-

Like a woman possessed she was vaguely aware of her thighs spreading, small clothes shoved to the side as she stroked the light fuzz that crowned her nether lips.  _Gods, that felt good._

Her cheeks grew hot with anticipation and excitement. And while the emotions themselves were familiar, the heights they were reaching within her were strange. It was something she'd never felt the like of before, something that mixed together with the guilt, uncertainly and fear, only came out stronger in the end.

_She wanted-_

She'd woken up more than once like this, with her underclothes sticky and fingers moving between her nether lips. Startling awake already poised on the brink as the echoes of his raspy growl aired out in the safety of her mind's eye. Catching herself in the midst of trying to chase down a feeling she could scarcely put a name to than explain.

_A lady did not do such things._

That same fluttering warmth was back in her belly, smouldering, brought forth by the mere memory of his warmth, the roughness of his scent, the maleness. She quivered under her sheets. Her center throbbed; the sensation was intense, almost too much as her swollen nub sparked with pleasure.

She pressed and rubbed, careful even in the depths of her pleasure as the words of her Sepsa drifted hazily in the back of her mind.  _'A moment of pleasure was an indulgence that was not worth her maidenhead,'_  after all.

_What was underneath her skirts was for her lord husband. It was her duty to ensure that her innocence remain untainted. It was unbecoming of a lady of her stature to-_

She wondered if it made her wicked when the thought only thrilled her all the more.

Her index finger trailed up the seam, slick and hot as she tossed her head back into the pillows.  _More._ She needed more. He would give it to her, she was sure of it. Anything she asked.

' _Sandor…'_

Her lips mouthed the name, like a curse – _no_ , a prayer - as the thin candlelight danced across the canopy of her bed. He'd seize her if she tried to run, strong arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her into him so effortlessly. She'd squirm, feigning escape, beating at the small of his back with her little fists when he tossed her over his shoulder, laughing at her fluttering and chirping until his lips swallowed her indignant cries. Forcing more than a song from them as he bore her to his rooms without a thought for anyone who might see them.

Her mouth dropped open, skin fever hot and glowing as her hair pooled around her nape. She was so close. She felt so much, like she was moments away from-

An irate burble sounded out from somewhere below her, startling her enough that she whipped her hand away – hiding herself under the linens like a naughty child caught in the act of some sort of mischief.

She bit her lip as the tip of a nail grazed her nub – retreating - back arcing in spite of herself at the inadvertent burst of warmth.

"Oh hush you," she groaned, throwing herself back on the pillows in an undignified flop. Petty frustration rising as her lady's center throbbed, once, then twice, before petering off. As the feeling, or whatever it had rightly been, was quickly lost to her.

"Damn," she huffed, cursing uncharacteristically at the ceiling. She squirmed, frustrated and unfulfilled, aching for something she didn't quite understand.

She needed him.

_Wanted him._

_How much longer would the Gods make her wait?!_

It wasn't until the silence began to weigh on her that she looked up and realized Sandor was staring at her from his crib, fixing her with the stink eye like he knew _exactly_  what she was thinking.

And gracious, wasn't that just a thought?


	18. Chapter 18

She weathered her disappointment well, but even she had to admit that her nerves were starting to get the better of her. Every day, Joffrey sought to up her torment. Thinking of new ways to turn her situation to his own amusement, jumping at the chance to parade her in front of the common folk and the high court, babe in tow.

A lesser woman would have long since quailed, suffering a nervous break at the mere sound of Ser Meryn or Ser Blout clanking down the hall towards her rooms.  _But not her._  She was beyond the thrall of mortification now. Instead, at every new summons, resignation was her cloak of choice. For as much as he tried, even Sandor's surly temper was not always enough to save them from the full force of the King's ire.

Joffrey had long since blamed her for his sworn shield's predicament but his accusations only grew from there. Planting whispers in the court that the actions of the woman in red was some sort of dark treason - an ill machination birthed from the heart of her brother's forces. The high court shunned her, even the more stalwart ladies who'd quietly given her their support after her father's death turned their backs – unwilling to be even so much as seen with her as the King's ravings grew louder by the day.

The message was clear.

This time, she was alone.

And while she was sure Sandor would have begged to differ on that point, unfortunately for them both, he was in no fit state to do anything about it. It hurt her pride, but it grew to the point that she was unwilling to leave her rooms unless bid by the King or coaxed out for a stroll with Margaery. As it was, the weight of the stares was almost suffocating whenever she was forced to leave the relative safety of her sanctuary.

But far from forgetting about Sandor's predicament, people's interest in his unchanged state only grew by the passing day. She sent Shae off to do meaningless tasks during the afternoons, hoping to glean the mood of the court as she sent her from castle keep to the royal chambers on errands. Quickly learning that theories as to when the hound would regain his true form ranged in lurid detail from the Throne Room to the kitchens. There was even a betting pool, or so Shae claimed. The odds were cut-throat and if rumors were to be believed, Lord Baelish was in the lead.

It was utterly shameful of course, but unsurprising all the same.

She'd just scrunched her nose and mock glared down at the babe in her charge. Having no doubt that if he were restored and someone else had been a victim of the spell, the hound would have already levered at least a gold dragon or two for the betting pots himself.

_Men!_

* * *

The days seemed to grow longer with every passing moonrise. Doing little to match her shortening patience as what seemed like an endless procession of people streamed to and from her chambers as the weather gradually grew chill. The warm sea breeze churning high in the clouds – darkening the sky in a way that made the words of her house never seem more appropriate.

Her father's voice was firm, strong like the battlements of home in the back of her mind.

" _You're a Stark of Winterfell, you know our words."_

_Winter was coming._

She supposed she should have been smug about it. Seeing the mantra of her father's fathers proven right yet again as talk amongst the capital switched from Sandor's condition and the King's response to such treasonous magikes, to grain prices and the state of the royal cellars.

But in truth, she could hardly bring herself to care. All she knew was that every morning that passed with the dark grey eyes of a babe staring up at her, rather than the man she'd grown so fond of, was like a needle prick to an already ravaged hand.

_Why would the Seven torture her so!?_

* * *

The unexpected turn of the weather led to several days of peace as far as her audiences with the King were concerned. It was a respite she embraced eagerly, heartily accepting an invitation to dine with Margaery in her solar for the afternoon meal.

The air was chill for the capital, but she embraced it in with an emotion so near reverence it was probably blasphemous. It reminded her of home, early spring in the Northlands. She couldn't help but breathe it in.

She bundled Sandor in a thick cotton shift and a small pair of gold-yellow leggings, adding a wispy, but shielding blanket of soft grey satin. She smiled as she navigated around his kicking limbs, sneaking a pair of socks on his little toes when he was distracted, gumming the side of his blanket idly, babbling nonsense at the ceiling as Shae shook out one of her warmer cloaks.

_It would feel good wearing something Northern made again._

* * *

"Take heed my dear," Margaery cautioned, plying her with mulled wine after dismissing her servants and directing her to a seat by the brazier one of her lesser cousin's had seen installed before taking their leave.

"I wish I could say I invited you to dine with me purely because I enjoy your company and wish for someone to cheer me with warm talk, but I fear that is not the case today. Not two days hence I had a visit from a spider. A spider very interested in you – or should I say you  _and_ our young friend."

She took a cautious sip from her goblet, considering her words carefully as she rocked the side of the cradle - made of a plain oak and lined with soft home-spun wool - Margaery had provided for their visit. Allowing them to speak freely as Sandor's eyes drooped, watching them sleepily until the slow rock gradually lulled him to sleep.

"Anything he wished to know, I would have told him freely," she finally remarked, keeping her tone low and unexcited as the warmth of the drink settled deep in the pit of her belly, spreading like a blush as a soft sort of pleasure sparked through her very bones.

"Of course, and I told him the same. But Sansa, you must understand, there is talk of having you relieved of your charge," Margaery uttered, leaning close as if even the fire grate might have ears. Looking so legitimately disturbed by the idea that she knew this was no ploy – no play for information and intrigue, but rather a plead for her attention.

Fear stiffened up her spine.

"I know you've grown rather fond of him," the woman continued, eyes fixed on the cradle at their feet as the babe slept on – a small frown creasing his gentle features. "After all, how could you not?" Margaery cautioned, smiling wanly as the pup shifted in his sleep, a sheen of spit slicking down his tiny chin as he drooled contentedly.

"I simply don't want you to be taken off guard if such a thing were to happen. I want you to be careful, Sansa, more careful than ever. This is a game that both parties seem to be playing to win, and my affection can only protect you so far, especially where the King is concerned."

The bird in her wanted to run – to fly away and lose itself in the crackling pines of Winterfell. But the wolf? Well, the wolf in her was  _snarling._ It took everything she had not to let it show. Forcing herself to sit, posture quiet – a mirror image of what her sepsa had taught – delicate and composed as she played with a square of lemon cake.

_They would not take Sandor from her! She'd claw out their eyes if they tried! She'd set fire to Joffrey's linens as he slept! She'd saddle Stranger and flee north if she had to, take refuge with one of her father's bannermen or her mother's brothers._

_She'd have someone send word to Robb and her Lady-mother and wait for them to collect her. She'd travel low, perhaps with Ser Dontoes for protection, pretending to be a peasant couple with a yearling babe in search of work and a warm hearth – no different from the hundreds of lower folk that traveled the King's Road daily._

_Just as Sandor had always done, she would keep them safe. It was as good as vowed._

"If the Small Council believes his welfare would be improved outside my care, then I welcome their interference. The hound saved my life, Margaery,  _Joffrey's life_ , I owe him a debt and wish him the best care available," she began, taking an unhurried sip from her goblet as her friend's eyes fixed on her.

"I feel as though I have tended to him to the best of my abilities. But I fear I am simply not knowledgeable in such matters, in the intricacies of dark magicks and the like. Perhaps it  _would_  be for the best if they placed him in the care of the Grand Maester. Surely he would be able to tend to Ser Clegane with far more competence than I," she continued, taking another sip of her mulled wine, hoping it would quell her nerves as Margaery shifted in her seat, a conflicted expression flickering across her features before that too was quickly reigned.

"If they believe they can help restore Ser Clegane to his original form or believe he would be better suited in someone else's care, then I welcome their guidance. With your wedding fast approaching, I am sure the King will be in need of his services now more than ever."

The awkwardness didn't leave their conversation until well into their third cup of wine. But even then, she got the distinct impression - when she eventually left the woman's company - that her friend did not believe her.


	19. Chapter 19

It was only when she was back in the safety of her rooms that she let her composure crack. Worry wracked through her, the sound dangerously close to a sob as she held Sandor close, nearly collapsing against her door as she let go of a shuddering sigh.

She turned the key in the lock and pocketed it, mind whirling. The spider was spinning his web and it seemed as though the two of them were already caught in it. Only the Seven knew what Joffrey and Cersei were planning – or worse –  _Littlefinger_.

She paced around the length of the room, cloak billowing out behind her like one of the coal-grey banners that had lined the halls in Winterfell. There was a fire crackling in the grate and fresh linens set out on her dresser, signs that Shae had been and gone sometime in the last hour. She wasn't likely to be disturbed until Sandor's next feeding and Shae bringing the evening meal.

_She needed time to think._

_Sandor would have known what to do._

_Oh, why hadn't she flown north with him when they'd had the chance?!_

She sucked in a shallow breath, vainly trying to force her shattered nerves to calm, patting Sandor absently as the end of his blanket swirled across the flagstones like a ghostly dancer searching for a long lost partner.

The babe seemed to sense her distress because instead of making a nuisance of himself, he remained silent. One hand fisted in the collar of her dress like he never intended to let it go. And in spite herself, the thought was comforting.

Much to her distress, Margaery had told her about Lord Varys' visit in full detail. Telling her how he'd asked about Sandor's behavior, about his awareness and focus when it came to certain tasks or following other people's conversation. And while such things were to be expected, within the realm of casual conversation considering the circumstances – certainly no less than he and Lord Baelish had inquired upon that day on the seaside - it was the addition that had truly distressed her.

Because he'd also asked Margaery for her perception of their relationship – the relationship between her and Sandor. The implication had made her blush, but luckily her friend had taken the color in her cheeks for indignation and had been quick to soothe her, describing how she'd told Varys that she felt strongly that it was her duty to care for him after he'd shielded her from the blast. Nothing more.

But the woman didn't have to tell her that Varys hadn't been fully satisfied with that answer. Indeed, the spider seemed to be tightening his web. Apparently it was almost unheard of for blood magic to linger so, especially on the person it was not meant for. And while she had no idea what that meant, she knew that for her and Sandor, it certainly couldn't be good.

_Who knew what foul ideas were churning in the spider's head?_

She held the babe tight to her breast as she approached the window, looking down at the gardens as servants and courtiers hurried down the stone paths, cloaked and shivering in skins that were unused to the hint of an early winter.

She paused as a particularly miserable looking page boy scuttled from doorway to doorway, a covered tray – likely his master's supper – balanced carefully in his thin little grip.  _What if this was all another ploy? A ruse meant to goad her into doing something foolish, like trying to flee King's Landing? Giving Joffrey the excuse to finally be rid of her for good?_

A tiny hand fell across the curve of her cheek, pulling her out of her thoughts as she looked down and caught the babe's eye. Sandor stared back, eyes wide and unblinking, sharing a moment that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as the muted howl of a sudden, bitter wind beat across the glass.

They looked outside as one, watching as cloaks flared out and banners spanned viciously in the wind. And in spite of herself, an emotion rose, high and heady in her breast as some part of her, long buried and fallow, flared into being.

_The old gods were speaking, whispering to one another through air and sea. They were gods of her father and his father before him. The gods of the heartwood and elder forests, untouched by memory and time. Did they make mockery of her? Did they think her foolish for her worries? Or worse, did they dismiss her for her absence from the Godswood of her forefathers? For her lack of faith? Did they blame her for her father's passing? For the sacking of Winterfell? For the destruction of their most sacred shrine?_

Knees weak, she sunk down into the chair beside her vanity, listening to the gale scream through the chinks into the mortar and stone. Sandor's hand tightened around her sleeve, tugging almost rhythmically until she pressed a weary kiss on his crown. Running her fingers through his thin curls as the babe muttered nonsense to himself.

"Do not make me wait much longer, Ser," she murmured, eyes fixed on the churning clouds darkening the sky as someone called out the hour on the battlements. "For I fear if you do, there will be little hope for us."

There was a bright flash in her mind's eye. The gleam of armor glinting off torch light – green flame – wildfire – reflecting through the glass as he took her in hand, carrying her on his back, a shapeless form drowning in plain brown cloth as he spirited her away from King's Landing as the battle raged on.

_He would have run that night with her if she'd asked. If she'd only opened her mouth sooner they could have been safe in Winterfell by now. He would have brought her home - protected her – she knew that now. Robb would have rewarded him handsomely; perhaps she could have even persuaded him and Mother to name him her sworn-shield. Either way he would have been hers. It was all but fated between them. She didn't understand it. But she knew it was true all the same._

"What would you have me do, Sandor?" she asked, hitching his little body higher as his gaze fixed on the storm lashing out against the window pane. Speaking her thoughts aloud more than anything as she watched a banner, Lannister red, begin to tear down the hem, overshadowing that of the Baratheon Stag for a few long moments before the wind took it. There was a flicker of red and then it was gone, like a single drop of blood fanning out into a basin, stark, but quickly muted.

"Even if it is only to chastise me for using your title, I would hear your voice again," she uttered, pausing for a moment before, " _-my lord_ ," she added playfully. Unable to stopper the laugh when the pup's face scrunched up in response, looking for all the world supremely displeased with her and her teasing as she rubbed their noses together and laughed. Thinking fondly of the man she missed as the hours grew sparse and the sky darkened.

* * *

She barely touched her supper; instead she dismissed Shae early and locked the door behind her. She hovered nervously by her vanity. Settling Sandor in his crib and waiting until she was sure she wasn't going to be disturbed before she loosened her gown and started searching through her chests.

Arya had been much like her brothers, showing deference to both the old gods and the new.  _"Hedging their bets,"_ Theon used to call it. While she'd taken after her Lady-Mother and prayed to the Seven. The Seven Faced God whose eyes saw all.

_The Father. The Mother. The Maiden. The Crone. The Warrior. The Smith. And the Stranger._

She'd been as devote as any follower of the Seven. Perhaps more so, considering she'd been known to pray daily. Asking for the Seven's guidance in all matters, great and small. She'd even lit a candle, on occasion, for the Stranger - regardless of the fright it gave her. But now, she couldn't help but dig through her furs, almost desperate to find the piece of carved heartwood her father had given her on the day of her birth.

He'd done the same for each of them, a token of his love and a symbol of the old god's protection as life started anew once more. And despite her devotion to the Seven, she'd kept it with her, bringing it to King's Landing with the same reverence a child might have for a beloved toy or swaddling blanket.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she fished it free, untangling it from around her lavender sash as she clutched it tight to her breast. The wood was smooth to the touch and warmer than she'd expected considering the foulness of the weather outside. She stroked the varnished bark with reverence, remembering the long hours her father would spend in the godswood, sharpening the broadsword of his fathers' as the face of the heartwood tree stared boldly back.

_She'd always thought it queer that the face seemed caught between laughter and sorrow. Only now, she thought she finally understood the dissonance, the meaning behind the mocking tilt of its features and the shadows that wreathed the highest branches._

She spared a glance behind her, reassured by the rise and fall of Sandor's small chest that he was well on his way to sleep before she lit a fresh taper and carried it to the window. Setting the piece of heartwood beside it, face angled towards her like the tree in the godswood at Winterfell.

For the first time in her memory, she knelt before it, beseeching her case to both the old gods and the new, invoking the name of Sandor Clegane in the hopes that his fate, along with hers, would not be forgotten.

She prayed, voice hushed to a whisper, growing ragged and dry as the hours passed. She spoke until she had nothing left, wrung dry of word and thought until a screeching howl echoed through the eves, startling her back to the present. Wind and rain lashed against the windows, shaking the pane as the glass rattled and creaked.

And though there was no draft, the light from the candle spat and sparked, burning hot as it consumed the wick with a ferocity that made her shiver.

She blinked, staring at the carven face for a few long moments before she rose, wobbling with exhaustion and limbs that had long since lost their feeling as she stumbled into her shift and crawled under her covers.

_She'd done her part._

Whatever the gods decided, it was out of her hands now.

* * *

Long after she fell asleep, the candle flickered and hissed, illuminating the shadows that spread from corner to eaves. And while neither woman nor babe were awake to see it, it was only then, when the storm finally tapered off, that twin tracks of red began flowing from its eyes. Bringing life into brittle, worm-addled wood as the hours waxed and waned, and its face, carefully carved and stained through with that same unearthly red sap, appeared to laugh.

_Perhaps the old gods had heard her call._


End file.
